


Breaking The Habit

by BellumGerere



Series: Chemical Prisoner [1]
Category: Divergent Series - Veronica Roth
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark Past, Drug Use, Eric is a mess, F/M, Functioning Addict?, Multi, Slow Build, well mostly canon compliant
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-12
Updated: 2017-08-11
Packaged: 2018-02-08 13:46:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 21
Words: 26,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1943421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BellumGerere/pseuds/BellumGerere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Dauntless leader hell-bent on keeping his vice a secret and a Candor transfer with a fear of moths. Together they make some very bad decisions. AU/mildly OOC. Follows the storyline of the first book.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dauntless

**Author's Note:**

> A quick note about this story: I know the characters are a bit OOC and this is probably the weirdest pairing you can ever think of, but I wanted to be able to explore their characters more, especially Eric's. Most of the story will be told from his point of view. Also, David: he was never in the book, in case you were wondering if you'd missed him. He is a mildly important OC who just happens to stick needles in Eric's face.

I am not sure exactly what wakes me, but if I had to venture a guess, I would say it is my pounding headache. Just opening my eyes requires a huge amount of effort, and as I blink away the blurriness of fatigue, I notice my hands. One or two of the scabs on my knuckles have peeled, revealing new skin, but the majority have been ripped off. Fresh blood stains the sheets, vivid red against the backdrop of off-white and rust.

It's not the first time this has happened. In fact, more often than not I wake with some part of me bruised or bloody. The risk of injury and possible death is one every Dauntless takes, but it runs even higher for me. Because I am a leader, because if I go a few days without a fix I cannot control myself.

I look at my hands. It has been a few days.

I reach blindly until I find the chain that turns on the other three lights. When I stand, I can see myself in the cracked shard of mirror hanging from the stone wall. My black hair is a greasy tangled mess. I consider washing it, but decide not to--it's a hopeless cause and a waste of time. Instead I flatten it a little with my thin fingers and pray no one notices. I step away from the mirror and my piercings catch the light, throwing reflections in every direction imaginable. At last count I had seventeen, but that could change in a matter of minutes.

Now that I've let myself think about it, I long for the feel of a needle piercing my skin. I don't trust myself to act normally if I shoot up, and since it is Choosing Day, I'll need my wits about me. Maybe I'll head down to see David later, see what he can do about the fact that I don't have a septum ring.

I bend down and pull on the first things I can find. Skintight pants, boots, a leather vest. My arms and chest are covered with dirt and black paint. I smear some across my eyes from a jar on the floor and check to make sure it hides the dark circles under them. (Fatigue is not leaderly, Max told me once, and I reluctantly took his advice to heart. I didn't need any more reasons for the others not to like me.) Once they have disappeared, I no longer look like the hopeless addict no one knows I am. I look Dauntless. And, if I'm being honest with myself, that confirmation is exactly what I need.

~oOo~

Max--another Dauntless leader, another conspirator--catches up to me at the end of the hallway. "Have you seen Four?" he asks urgently. He keeps trying to meet with Four, and I'm sure Four is avoiding him. I shake my head and wait.

"Can you go find him?" I knew he was going to ask, he always does. I shake my head again. This time I raise my eyebrow, moving several piercings in the process. "Well, why not?"

"Have you forgotten what day it is?" I turn around and start walking, but backwards, so I can make progress and still see his reaction. His brow furrows, and he pushes a hand through his gray-streaked hair.

"Right. Well, if you see him, tell him I'm looking for him."

I shrug. "Might not see him. I'm busy today." But I know now that I will make a point of seeking him out. I'm always looking for excuses to see Four, slip into the conversation that I'm not second best anymore, am I?

"Of course you are." Part of him, I'm sure, is angry that I'm the one who took the extra step and volunteered to oversee training for the faction transfers. We might be working for the same cause, but we are more reluctant colleagues than friends.

I start across the Pit, not waiting to hear the end of his response. David's room is in the hallway opposite mine, one of the generic spaces not reserved for Dauntless leaders or initiates. (Mine is as well, but I'm loathe to admit it. The rest of the leaders all live in the Spire, and they despise me. When it came time to pick my living quarters, I decided I would rather stay close to the few friends I have.) I know I will find him there--it's too early for him to be anywhere else. People watch me as I go by. Some bow their heads respectfully or mutter greetings. The ones that don't are frozen, watching me out of the corners of their eyes. I can sense their stares on me, and the feeling of their mixed respect and fear is not entirely an unpleasant one.

I don't bother knocking on David's door, I just push right in. The chair is already set up, an assortment of needles and rings on a tray next to it. The puncture scars on the inside of my elbow ache just looking at them. Obviously, he knew I was coming. Part of me wonders if Asher let him know I'm in a shitty mood, but I push that thought away. Whatever the two of them have to say about me behind my back is clearly none of my business.

"Let me guess." I turn around and he is there, tan fingers tapping impatiently on the bed frame as he scrutinizes me from under an unruly mop of brown hair. I don't have a bed frame. My thin mattress is on the floor, like everything else. "Septum ring?"

"Right as always." Now that the tedious guessing process is over I am free to drop into the chair. David snaps on a pair of rubber gloves and looks at me like he knows. And he does. I've paid him well to keep my dirty little secrets (though one would think it comes with the territory, being friends with a leader and all). The only thing he has to do is supply me (no matter how reluctantly) with a vice.

"Don't hold back," I say. It has been almost a year since I stopped getting numb like I used to. I expect the pain, I anticipated it. The slow burn of the healing puncture is the best part, though, and I hope it will be enough of a high to get me through the day.

"It'll be a couple days before we get more in," he says, answering my question before I ask it. "Probably a good thing, though. You'll have faction transfers to train." He winks at me. David was in my group two years ago, and he is one of the few people who knows I transferred to Dauntless from Erudite. Not to mention one of the few I allowed close enough to call friend.

"Don't remind me. I hope we get another Stiff this year. Something I can use to taunt Four."

"Yeah, yeah," David mutters. His Candor nature, still not hidden well enough after two years, allows me to know exactly when he's annoyed with me, and now is one of those times. "Hold still."

I close my eyes and let him stick the needle in me, forgetting everything I have to do, all feigned interest in my responsibilities, until there is only the pain.


	2. Transfers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter should be nothing new…it's the scene where Eric is first introduced in the original novel. That being said, I got a lot of dialogue straight from the book, so I'm going to issue my disclaimer for the entire story here: I do not own any of the characters except the ones that I made up, and I don't own any of the dialogue in this chapter.   
> Another thing: I'm not often going to be posting the original ANs with these chapters, since most of the early ones were written over three years ago and therefore not relevant. I'll only post notes that are chapter-specific.

Five hours later I stride down the hall to the cafeteria, hoping to intercept Four and maybe scare the hell out of some faction transfers. It’s almost always easy to do, especially considering I must have at least one bruise on my pale face, not to mention all the holes from piercings. I feel the cold ring of metal whenever I inhale, smell the blood. The pain of raw injuries is a balm that soothes my craving, makes it bearable. I clench and unclench my hands as a distraction. Forcing my face into an expression that radiates ice and danger, I push open the door.

The room falls silent, except for a few hushed whispers, the kind that tend to follow me wherever I go. According to Asher, I’m a sight to see, with my piercings and tattoos and the dirt that almost always covers me. The majority of the general population of Dauntless would be lying, she claims, if they said they weren’t at least a little afraid of me. Most of the tables are occupied by a mix of members, Dauntless-born initiates, and transfers. I scan the room and finally locate Four sitting with two transfer girls—one from Candor…one from Abnegation. _Yes. _And I haven't just noticed them, they’ve seen me too. As I start towards the table I can't help but notice that while the Stiff is whispering to Four and doing anything she possibly can to avoid my gaze, the Candor makes no move to stop staring at me.__

__I drop into the seat next to Four, who pretends not to notice I'm there. It doesn’t work. I can see how tense he is. The transfers eye me warily. I don’t greet them. It would cause my façade to crumble in a second if I appear even the slightest bit friendly. "Well, aren't you going to introduce me?" I ask instead, nodding at them._ _

__Trying his best to appear casual, Four replies: "This is Tris and Christina."_ _

__"Ooh, a Stiff." I know I won’t be able to get a rise out of him, but I can't help it. "We'll see how long you last." She doesn't respond. The look on her face is priceless, somewhere between incredulous and terrified. I turn away. "What have you been doing lately, Four?"_ _

__He hears the edge in my voice. Knows I don't really care. Shrugs. "Nothing, really."_ _

__"Max tells me he keeps trying to meet with you, and you don't show up. He requested that I find out what's going on with you."_ _

__He looks at me suspiciously for a few seconds. The last thing I want to do is make it appear to him that I’m Max’s lapdog, because then I have no power over him, and I need that power, need it more than I need air. "Tell him that I am satisfied with the position I currently hold."_ _

__"So he wants to give you a job." I'm not sure if I believe it. He would be of no use to us. He might even be one of them—no one would be surprised if it turned out he was._ _

__"So it would seem."_ _

__"And you aren't interested."_ _

__"I haven't been interested for two years." His voice is more or less devoid of emotion. He’s always been good at controlling himself, because of his background. I’m one of the few people with access to that precious information, and I keep it in my back pocket at all times, because I never know when I’ll need to pull out in order to make him cooperate._ _

__"Well. Let's hope he gets the point, then." I clap Four on the shoulder as I get up to leave the table. Maybe a little too hard. Oh, well. I would've punched him—all friendly, of course, just a show of affection between two former initiates—if it weren't for my damn bloody knuckles._ _

__~oOo~_ _

__Four vanishes without a trace—hopefully down the chasm—and I am forced to show the transfers around, something that would normally be his job. I don't bother to tell them where we're going, which from anyone else would invite questions, but they remain silent. Already nervous around me. Good._ _

__I stop in front of the door to the room where the transfers will stay and turn to face them. I can’t look at that door, there are too many memories behind it. "For those of you who don't know, my name is Eric." _And for those who _do _know… _My eyes land on the Candor who'd been sitting with Four and the Stiff. She stares right back. "I am one of five leaders of the Dauntless. We take the initiation process very seriously here, so I volunteered to oversee most of your training._____ _

______"Some ground rules. You have to be in the training room by eight o'clock every day. Training takes place every day from eight to six, with a break for lunch. You are free to do whatever you like after six. You will also get some time off between each stage of initiation." _I hope I sound as bored as I am. _I think idly that it’s lucky Asher got a job in the tattoo parlor, because if she’d ended up having to do this she wouldn’t have even made it halfway through the spiel.___ _ _ _ _ _

________"You are only permitted to leave the compound when accompanied by a Dauntless. Behind this door is the room where you will be sleeping for the next few weeks. You will notice that there are ten beds and only nine of you. We anticipated that a higher proportion of you would make it this far."_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________"But we started with twelve." I don't have to look to know this is the Candor girl speaking. Who else would that tone of voice, that brutal, interrupting honesty come from? I shrug and closely examine my fingernails, trying to look nonchalant._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________"There is always at least one transfer who doesn't make it to the compound. Anyway, in the first stage of initiation, we keep transfers and Dauntless-born initiates separate, but that doesn’t mean you are evaluated separately. At the end of initiation, your rankings will be determined in comparison with the Dauntless-born initiates. And they are better than you are already. So I expect—"_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_________"Rankings?" _This time the interruption comes from a tall Erudite girl standing next to the Stiff. "Why are we ranked?"__ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________I smile. I've been hoping someone would ask. At the very least, it will make things more interesting. "Your ranking serves two purposes. The first is that it determines the order in which you will select a job after initiation. There are only a few _desirable _positions available. The second purpose is that only the top ten initiates are made members."___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________Complete silence, then the Candor girl says "What?" This time I actually look at her. Dark hair and eyes, dressed in standard black-and-white Candor clothing. She has a name, I remember. Christina. And Christina does not look happy, nor do any of the other transfers, whose expressions range from shocked to furious._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________"There are eleven Dauntless-born, and nine of you. Four initiates will be cut at the end of stage one. The remainder will be cut after the final test."_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________"What do we do if we're cut?" a boy asks._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________"You leave the Dauntless compound and live factionless."_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________'But that's…not fair!" Another Candor. Of course they would be the most vocal, and the first to protest. "If we had _known _\--"___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________I snap. I've had enough of this and it's barely been five minutes. The transfers don’t understand the way thing are done here. They never do, not at first. "Are you saying that if you had known this before the Choosing Ceremony, you wouldn't have chosen Dauntless? Because if that's the case, you should get out now. If you are really one of us, it won't matter to you that you might fail. And if it does, you are a coward."_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________I push the door open, eager to leave them to their own devices and possibly find some peace in solitude._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________"You chose us. Now we have to choose you."_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _


	3. Interruption

Alone at last, I lock my door without turning on the lights. Instead I get down on my knees and sift through the debris on my floor (dirty laundry, cigarette butts, empty bottles that once held beer) until I unearth a dark brown bottle of liquor, still unopened. Further digging reveals a half-full pack of cigarettes and a book of matches. My lighter is nowhere to be found. It's not enough, not by a long shot, but it will have to do. Hopefully it will get me through the night.

The silence ringing in my ears is deafening. I strike a match and light the cigarette, uncork the bottle. Alternating between long drags and short drinks, I settle into a steady rhythm interrupted only by my ragged breathing.

Tomorrow will be the first day of training for the initiates. Four will spend his morning teaching the transfers how to shoot, which will be nothing if not a show. I would say I mean to help him, but that is a lie. The last thing I want to do is hang around a bunch of incompetent faction transfers with loaded guns, especially the way I'm feeling now (although if one of them were to shoot me, I’d probably consider it an act of mercy).

I've smoked the cigarette almost down to the filter and am strongly considering lighting another when there is a knock on the door. I don't know who it is, so I put out the cigarette on the wall, drain the rest of the liquor and toss the bottle into a corner, where it makes a hollow ringing sound but doesn't break. As a leader, I won’t get written up for smoking or drinking. It’s hard to get written up for those things anyway. But it’s still generally frowned upon, especially for those in charge, to be under the influence of anything. The next knock is followed by an exasperated sigh and an attempt to turn the knob. I tense up. I know that voice.

Sure enough, when I open the door Four is behind it, tapping his fingers on the wall impatiently. He pushes past me without a single word, pulling the chain for the lights as he settles gingerly on the edge of my mattress. He looks around at the mess on the floor with a disgusted expression that hints at condescending thoughts.

"What do you want?" I snap. He doesn’t answer. Instead he inhales deeply, and that look is back again.

"You didn't have to put out your precious cigarette for me," he says. "I wouldn't have been surprised."

As if smoking is the worst of my habits. I would be angry if I didn't know how to put him back in his place.

"I'm waiting, _Tobias _." I sit down so close to him that we share breaths. He is claustrophobic; this will make him uncomfortable. "What. Do. You. Want?"__

__I've never seen him as angry as he is now, and I have to admit it almost worries me. It would have. If I weren't a leader. If I didn't have power over him. I’ve spent so long trying to get the power, and now I have it. Why should I be worried?_ _

__His voice is steady and controlled, not a hint of anger, not the least bit upset. "What did you say to the transfers?"_ _

__Oh. That. "I told them the truth."_ _

__"The truth about _what _, Eric?" He rarely uses my name. It hits me that he must be more upset than he's letting on.___ _

____'That not all of them will make it through this. The Dauntless-born initiates already know; why shouldn't the transfers?" I cross my arms and lean against the cold stone wall. He wouldn’t usually make such a big deal out of this. I have a feeling it has to do with the Stiff._ _ _ _

____"But their first day?" He sighs deeply, leans forward with his head in his hands. He’s being a bit irrational, and he probably knows it. But he’d never admit that to me. "None of them will sleep tonight."_ _ _ _

____"Then they don't deserve to be here." I have a sudden flash of the Candor girl—Christina—and I know she will make it through the night. She is different._ _ _ _

_____It could be because…no. _I push that thought out of my head. I can't afford to think of her now, with nothing to numb the pain.__ _ _ _ _

______"But that's not the reason I came here." He straightens up, and I notice that his hand is deep in his pocket, closed around something._ _ _ _ _ _

______"Why are you here, then?" There aren't many reasons he would come to see me willingly. I can't even think of any._ _ _ _ _ _

______"I'm here," he says slowly, "because I have something you might want.” He pulls his hand out of his pocket, and in his palm is a bottle of Instigate._ _ _ _ _ _

______My mouth goes dry, my hands clench into fists and I can feel the syringe burning a hole in the corner of my room, right through the concrete floor. If I was fighting withdrawal before, it is nothing compared to how I feel now. I would give anything—almost anything—to be back in that heavenly hell of forgetfulness. But I will not let myself look weak in front of him, and a more important question burns in my mind: How does he know?_ _ _ _ _ _

______"You should be more careful who you get to do your dirty work," he says. "With the proper…persuasion, they can turn their backs on you within seconds."_ _ _ _ _ _

______"What did you do?" I try to control the tremors in my voice, but it's no use. I will readily admit that I'm not as worried about David's welfare as I am about who would supply me with Instigate if he mysteriously turned up dead. He will be fine. He knew the risks when he volunteered, right?_ _ _ _ _ _

______"Nothing you wouldn't have done." _And I would do a lot. "Consider this a warning. Don't come anywhere near the transfers tomorrow."__ _ _ _ _ _

_______"I wasn't planning on it."_ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______"Well, then we didn't need to have this conversation, did we?" He slips the bottle into his pocket and moves to the door. Too far gone to care anymore, I lunge for him, but he pushes me aside and I land on the empty liquor bottle, which embeds glass in my arm as it shatters. As he closes the door, his last words linger behind him: "See you in two days."_ _ _ _ _ _ _


	4. Chasm

Two days feels longer than I thought it would. The morning I am due to watch the transfers fight, I have a migraine that won't go away. I am paler than usual, the circles under my eyes have gotten worse. I can barely drag myself off the thin mattress in the morning, even with the threat lf Four’s anger looming heavy over my head. It’s already obvious how the day will go. I know I will be absolutely vicious to the transfers, Four will withhold the Instigate, and I will sink slowly into delirium. At least I've resigned myself to my fate.

 I arrive and take my place next to Four as the first pair begins to fight. It’s a comical match—one of them is the biggest and burliest of the lot, the other among the smallest, and stick-thin. As usual, I don't bother with their names—I'm sure I'll learn them eventually—but when the little one gets punched in the jaw I smirk at his opponent, turning one of the rings in my eyebrow absentmindedly. The violence keeps me awake, and analyzing the fight keeps me sane. There are always a few who come here with the advantage of strength or size, and the larger one obviously has both.

 After a few more punches and kicks, they stop and start to circle each other. I check my watch.  Normally one of them would have been down by now, but they’re just dancing around each other hesitantly, neither willing to hit the other. This fight is the only thing keeping my mind here, and I can't afford to drift away.

 "Do you think this is a leisure activity?" I shout, the anger and irritation seeping through clearly. "Should we break for naptime? Fight each other!"

 The big one looks over at me. Surprisingly, he seems more hesitant than his opponent. "But…is it scored or something? When does the fight end?"

 "It ends when one of you is unable to continue."

 "According to Dauntless rules, one of you could also concede." I don't even have to look to know it's Four who said this.  He has more traditional honor than anyone in Dauntless, without question. But it’s my job to enforce the new rules, even if I don’t wholeheartedly agree with them. I turn and glare at him.

 "According to the _old_ rules. In the _new_ rules, no one concedes."

 "A brave man acknowledges the strength of others."

 "A brave man never surrenders."

 We stare at each other, both thinking the same thing but neither willing to say it out loud. We are more alike than either of us cares to admit, but we can’t let the transfers know that. At least, I can’t. It would ruin the reputation I’ve worked so hard to build and uphold. Untouchable, unapproachable. That has to be me.

 "This is ridiculous," the big one says. "What's the point of beating him up? We're in the same faction!"

 "Oh, you think it's going to be easy?" The little opponent grins, putting his hands up. "Go on. Try to hit me, slowpoke."

 Yes. This is exactly what I came for. The small one is fast, he even lands a good kick or two, but it's no use. The fight is over in a matter of seconds, and he is crumpled on the ground.

 "Get him up," I order. On the chalkboard, Four circles the winner's name—Al—before leading the injured one out of the room…leaving me alone with the transfers. Hell. "Next up-Molly and Christina!"  Christina. The Candor girl that sparked such a strong reaction in me yesterday. I tell myself not to react if she gets hurt. It doesn't matter that their names are made of the same letters, she is not…

 She manages to get in one kick right at the beginning, but she is no match for Molly's strength. The beating is short but brutal: within minutes she is sobbing and covered in her own blood, and her opponent shows no signs of stopping.

 "Stop! Stop! I'm…" She coughs. Blood spatters the floor." I'm done."

 No. Too much to handle, they are too much alike. Before I even consciously realize what’s happening, my legs carry me forward until I stand over her body, bruised and battered on the floor. "I'm sorry, what did you say? You're done?"

 She pushes herself up, leaving smears of blood on the mat, and nods. It flares an anger in me the likes of which I haven’t felt since my own initiation. She is breaking through the drug-controlled numbness I’ve spent two years building up, and I can’t let it happen. She can’t worm her way inside me.

 "Get up." Sudden determination rushes through me. I will not let this memory-girl control me. I will take care of this problem the only way I know how. "Follow me," I say to the rest of the transfers as I drag Christina out of the room by her red-splattered arm, trusting that fear will be enough to make them follow.

 I lead them to the chasm, where the river sprays against the rock, ignoring the stares I receive from every full member I pass. "Climb over it," I say, shoving her into the railing.

 “What?" Her voice, indignant but masking a slight nervous tremor, almost breaks me. Appearance-wise, they are nothing alike. It’s only in attitude that I see her ghost. I am going to desperate measures to get rid of anything that reminds me of her.

 "Climb over the railing. If you can hang over the chasm for five minutes, I will forget your cowardice. If you can't, I will not allow you to continue initiation."

 "Fine." I can hear her voice shaking, but I pretend not to. She swings herself over the railing and lowers herself off the ledge. A minute or so passes in time to the tapping of my thick-soled boot, and she does not fall…but just as I start to feel she can do it, she is sprayed with white water and slips, barely holding on by her fingertips.

  _No!_ I clench my hands together behind my back. _Not Christina. Not Christian._

_"I don't think you can do it," I say as she drags me towards the railing, light brown hair flying out behind her. When she first jumped on the train with me it was filled with natural sun-kissed highlights, but spending weeks underground has turned it monochrome again. She stops in front of it and begins to climb over. "Five minutes," she says, and kisses me before she lowers. "Time me."_

_One minute. Two. Three. It’s almost easy for her._ Christina, on the other hand, sobs and is sprayed again, now hanging by one hand. _Three and a half. Her hands start to slip slowly, inciting a tension in me. Four._ Another splash. All I can see of her is her hand. She’s grabbed onto the very bottom of the vertical bars, but I’m not holding out hope. She still has to last another third of a minute. _Twenty. Nineteen. Eighteen. A wave hits her back and she screams. Only her right hand visible through the railing. I am bent in half trying to hold her up, but I’m afraid that I’m only succeeding in making her fall faster. Three. Two. One._

"Five minutes are up," one of the initiates—I don’t look to see who—says in a voice choked with fear. I make a show of checking the time, trying to force myself back to the present. The thought of her aches, ripping open the years-old scar of a formerly closed wound.

 “Fine." It takes an incredible amount of concentration to keep my voice steady. "You can come up, Christina. No, she has to do it on her own." I add as the big one, Al, walks toward the railing.

 "No, she doesn't. She did what you said. She's not a coward. She did what you said."

 As I watch her friends help her up it occurs to me that the only real difference in their stories is that Christina made it out alive.


	5. Choice

"Stop playing with her. I don't have all day."

 I am tapping my foot faster than the clock in an effort to hide how much I am shaking. It’s been almost two weeks since my last fix and I can feel myself slowly going insane. Four and I stand against the wall, watching the Stiff get beat up. Not surprising, seeing as it’s her first time in the ring (although the last Stiff to fight here was surprisingly good, considering his…background). My mind is not on the battle. It should be, but I am trying not to think about yesterday's memory scare. It is difficult without Instigate to drown my thoughts, and every time I think I've successfully forgotten I look over at Christina. She is bruised and hiding a limp, and every now and then her lip will start bleeding again. When she lifts her hand to dab at the blood on her face, I force myself to turn away.

 I look at the board and note that she is fighting Will today. I don't know much about him except that he is an Erudite transfer, like me, that he is not very big, and that he lost to Al yesterday. She would have no problem winning if she wasn't so beaten up already. Will is too, having been knocked out, but his injuries are nowhere near hers. I can’t help but wonder how the fight would go if I hadn't dangled her into submission and further harm.

 My hair falls into my face when I move, and I brush it away impatiently to see that while I've been lost in thoughts of Christina the Stiff has taken a pretty bad beating and Four has left the room, which means I am alone to deal with the transfers. Fantastic. "Enough!" I yell halfheartedly, stepping up to the mat and instructing Al to carry her to the hospital. The reason I'm doing this, I know, is not because she is badly hurt—though she is that—but because she is Christina's friend. This is my subtle, brought-on-by-withdrawal way of partially apologizing for almost killing her. But even after that, I am still forced to call her to fight.

 Unlike yesterday's, this match is over in seconds, when Will gets in one good punch to her jaw. I circle his name on the board rather than watch her struggle to get up. My mind slips and for a fleeting second I see Christian in front of me, bobbing up and down impatiently as she waits for her turn to fight. There was never a single bruise on her face. She always won. I force the image away. I can't afford to lose it here.

 I call more names and watch more fights. So far, none of them are particularly impressive to me, though I might be setting my standards too high. Al goes unconscious after a few hits, making me suspicious, though I don't comment. It’s easy enough to see, though, that he’s throwing the fight on purpose. His Candor stare gives everything away. My eyes flick back to her every few seconds. She sits on the floor, cradling her jaw where she's been hit. She is bleeding again, but I don't think she notices.

 The transfers gather in a loose semicircle around me after the last fight, after I call out “Listen up” in the most bored voice I can muster. I need to convince them that I don’t care, which shouldn’t be too difficult, considering none of them are particularly observant.

 “You’ll be taking a little field trip to the fence tomorrow, to learn about Dauntless jobs.” We did the same thing when I was an initiate, though I don’t remember much of the actual content they covered. I was preoccupied with Christian and Asher, going at each other like they always did. “The train leaves at eight fifteen. I suggest you be there.”

 “Will you be coming with us?” asks the Candor transfer who beat the shit out of the Stiff not even twenty minutes ago. Peter, if I remember correctly. His tone practically screams _sycophant_. I can’t help but glare at him condescendingly.

 “No, because I have a job to do.” _Unlike you_ , I think, but I can’t say it out loud, can’t give them any evidence against me. “One that’s a little more important than babysitting you all day.” He looks appropriately embarrassed, which makes me laugh. I’m expecting everyone to leave, but when they don’t, I press my palm against my forehead and close my eyes. “You can go now.”

 They file out in groups of two or three, already splitting up into packs. My year was more or less split into two even camps. People who were friends with Four, and people who were friends with me. The only person to try and bridge that gap ended up dead. I see Christina leaving with Will, at the back of the group—how odd that she would choose to stay with him after he bruised her jaw like that—and I can’t help it, I need to talk to her. Before I’m fully aware of my intentions I’ve placed my hand on her shoulder, stopping her in her place.

 "Don't move," I say quietly, although she is frozen with fear and I doubt she can. I’m still not quite sure why I stopped her (what can I say to someone I nearly killed yesterday?) when I notice her hand on her jaw and an idea strikes me. I go over to the small first aid station in the corner of the room and grab an ice pack from the cooler. She watches me warily as I approach her again and hold it out. "For your jaw."

 She takes it hesitantly, as though it might poison her, but when she holds it to her injury I hear a sigh of relief escape her lips. "Thanks."

 "No problem."

 She pauses at the door, turns to face me. I know what’s coming and yet there still isn’t enough time to prepare for the single-word bomb she drops on me.

 "Why?"

 Somehow I know she's not talking about the ice pack. "You wouldn't understand."

She glares at me as she walks away, full of righteous anger, black-and-blue skin. "Of course I wouldn't."

 ~oOo~

For reasons I don't fully understand, I stay behind to scrub the floor of the practice room. Guilt, maybe. I can't stand knowing that her blood is somewhere on this floor and, all right, maybe it reminds me a little too much of my own rust-stained sheets. The small part of me that retained its sanity knows that I just want to keep my hands busy. If I sit around idly in the midst of withdrawal, who knows what desperate measures I might resort to in order to get a fix.

 The door opens and shuts behind me as someone enters the room, but I ignore them, choosing to continue my methodical scrubbing of the floor. I hope that if I remain silent long enough, they will go away, but soon another rag appears next to mine, guided by a disgustingly familiar hand.

 "What do you want?" I snap. If there is even the slightest chance he is carrying that vial in his pocket right now…I am so far gone that I might kill to get it, and the fact that Four would be dead would only be an added bonus to my high. Any lingering guilt would be forgotten in the midst of blessed relief.

 "This isn't your job."

 "It isn't yours either."

 I won't let him win, and he knows it. I always have to have the last word. He switches tactics. "I heard what you did yesterday." I open my mouth, planning on defending myself, but nothing comes out. There’s nothing I can say, really. "How could you possibly think," he continues calmly, "that something like that would be justifiable?"

 "I…" Scrambling for self-justifying words, I finally settle on turning it around on him. Not my best strategy, but the short notice leaves me little time to go over my choices. "I wasn't thinking straight. You know that."

 "Of course." The look he gives me is full of disgust and hatred. I recognize it immediately. It's one I commonly use on him. "It had absolutely nothing to do with—"

 "Don't." I drop the rag and stand up. Water-diluted blood drips off my hands in a familiar pattern. "I don't know what makes you think you can talk to me like that, but you should be more careful when you do it." I tap the inside of my elbow and raise an eyebrow at him. Judging by the fact that he remains on the floor, he doesn't have it on him. But he _has_ it…

 "Right. Well, I'll let you finish up here." He stands and tosses his rag at me, his face emotionless. He must have had a lot of time to practice that in Abnegation. I catch the cloth easily. "And I'll even cut you a deal." Apparently fed up with my antics, he turns to walk out of the room, tossing the words behind him. "We're playing capture the flag tomorrow night. I might just let you have it if you win."


	6. Stakes

I spend the next twenty-four hours doing semi-useful things. Washing the blood and dirt from my body, collecting the empty bottles and burned-out cigarettes from my bedroom floor, unearthing the dresser and putting my clothes in it. When I finish, the room and I are spotless, my collection of syringes safely hidden away in a hole behind the mirror, and I sink onto the mattress, holding the flag in my hands…holding my life in my hands, because if I don't win, my slow, painful death-by-withdrawal is guaranteed.

 

When it is time to wake the transfers—like they'd even gotten any sleep—I meet up with the other Dauntless, Four among them, who signed up to be a part of this. As usual, I am the last to arrive, but one of the first in the door. We all have flashlights to shine on the transfers, and somehow the beam of mine lands, predictably, on Christina. "Everybody up!" I yell as I try to focus my tired eyes on her. Someone's flashlight shines behind me, casting everything in shadow, and once I adjust to the it I see that she stands next to a bunk with only a thin T-shirt on. My gaze drops to her legs, bare and dotted with bruises, and I find I suddenly need to look elsewhere. My eyes land on the Stiff, who stares back at me and doesn't move. If I didn’t know better I would think she’s defying me, but there’s no way she has that kind of courage.

 

"Did you go deaf, Stiff?" Once I have called her out, she hurries to stand. _That’s what I thought_. "You have five minutes to get dressed and meet us by the tracks. We're going on another field trip."

 

Once the announcement has been made, I can’t stay there a second longer, not with Christina looking like that. I lead the members to the tracks, avoiding Four's eyes even though he is trying to catch mine. Soon the Dauntless-born initiates catch up with us, then the transfers. Of course the initiates returning to Dauntless instead of joining it are on top of things, since they know what’s coming. A few of them are already clutching guns and boxes of paintballs, standing in groups.

 

"Everyone grab a gun!" I shout, gesturing to the pile of them, next to a neat stack of paintball boxes. While the initiates are busy arming themselves, I turn to Four, still not quite meeting his eyes. "Time estimate?"

 

He barely glances at his watch. "Any minute now. How long is it going to take you to memorize the train schedule?"

 

"Why should I, when I have you to remind me of it?" I shove his shoulder in a gesture that hopefully comes off as friendly to our audience, and as the train approaches we board in small groups so that we can all get into the same car. I am one of the first to get on, before even him, and it gives me a smug sense of satisfaction to know that in this one small thing, I have beaten him.

 

"We'll be dividing into two teams to play capture the flag," Four announces after everyone is on board. "Each team will have an even mix of members, Dauntless-born initiates, and transfers. One team will get off first and find a place to hide their flag. Then the second team will get off and do the same. This is a Dauntless tradition, so I suggest you take it seriously."

 

"What do we get if we win?" someone yells. I can’t see who it is, but they must be a transfer. No one from Dauntless would ask a stupid question like that. I learned that the hard way.

 

"Sounds like the kind of questions someone not from Dauntless would ask.” Four echoes my thoughts with a raised eyebrow. “You get to win, of course."

 

"Four and I will be your team captains," I continue, glancing at him through the corner of my eye. "Let's divide up transfers first, shall we?"

 

"You go first," he says, acting like he’s throwing me a bone. I always have the option not to take his bait, but the prospect of being the first to pick a winning team—which I need more than anything now—is too tempting to pass up. I shrug and scan the group, looking for…"Edward."

 

Four nods. "I want the Stiff."

 

I have to bite my lip to stifle a laugh. "Got something to prove? Or are you just picking the weak ones so that if you lose, you'll have someone to blame it on?" _Not that I mind. Use that strategy for all I care. It will only get me the win._

 

"Something like that." He shrugs, playing nonchalant, but I know better than that. As much as I’d like to think he’s handing me the win, there’s something else at work here. "Your turn."

 

"Peter."

 

"Christina." I don't pause to glare at him—that would be a dead giveaway—but I wish I could. No one can know the real reason behind what happened the other day, even though I’m sure that by now at least Four has figured it out.

 

"Molly."

 

"Will."

 

"Al."

 

"Drew."

 

"Last one left is Myra." I grit my teeth. "So she's with me. Dauntless-born initiates next." We finish choosing teams quickly. My strategy is simple—pick the strongest ones. We can beat them in a fight and play defense the whole time. (I will admit I give priority to a friend of mine from Erudite who transferred in the same year as me. She is the first member I pick, but that’s more out of loyalty than strategy.) I smirk at him.

 

"Your team can get off second," I say.

 

"Don't do me any favors. You know I don't need them to win." He doesn’t. His team won two years ago and I’ll be damned if I haven’t forgotten it.

 

"No, I know that you'll lose no matter when you get off. Take your scrawny team and get off first, then." I turn one of my lip rings as I watch Four's team jump, then turn to mine. Suddenly they all seem weak. They can’t possibly get me what I want. "You should all know that I have a lot more riding on this than just winning a game. It—"

 

"How is that even possible?" Peter interrupts, smirking at me. It was probably meant to be a snide side comment to his friends, but he’s too loud and arrogant to keep his voice down. I hate to say it, but he reminds me of myself when I was a transfer-strong, a good fighter, but too confident in his own abilities. Unlike I would've, though, he doesn’t realize what a mistake he's made. "I mean," he continues, oblivious to my steadily growing anger, "it's just a game."

 

I step forward until we are inches apart, taking fierce pleasure in watching the color drain from his face, to be replaced by a look of terror. He’s annoyed me since day one—maybe he just reminds me too much of a younger me. To watch him grow afraid is hugely satisfying. "Listen, transfer," I say quietly. "Four has something of mine. He's only going to give it back to me if I—if _we_ —" I add, glaring at the rest of my team, "win this. And what he took from me could literally be the difference between my life and death. So don't tell me this is just a game." I lower my voice, speaking only to him. "Remember your place. Alright, everyone, Peter's in charge," I say, smiling viciously. My _and he's dead if we lose_ remains unspoken. It’s probably a horrible idea, but I don’t trust myself to lead, to delegate when my own mind is so addled from withdrawal. "Let's go hide the flag."


	7. Eyes Open

When we jump out of the train, it is onto crumbling concrete mixed with dry grass. Lack of Instigate and its effects on my body have caught me off guard, and I land unbalanced, skimming my arms, knees, side across the graying blacktop. Fresh blood and gravel replace the filth I washed off earlier, and even in dim light it looks startlingly dark against my death-pale skin.

 

Peter looks around uncertainly, taking in our surroundings. (It’s fun to watch him flounder—I knew putting him in charge would be a good idea.) All things considered, we lucked out on location: almost directly to our right, maybe a quarter of a mile away, is the park at the end of Navy Pier. It is mostly open greenspace now, good for seeing our attackers, but there is also a thin line of trees in which the flag could be easily concealed. He catches my eye, and I jerk my head toward it, unable to resist helping him out at least a little. Now no one can say I didn’t do anything. For a second, I think he doesn't understand, but he turns to the others and says "Let's head to the park. We can hide the flag in the trees." Without looking back he starts walking, and we fall into step behind him.

 

"Are you sure letting him lead is a good idea?" a quiet amused voice asks next to me. I turn and falling into step next to me is Asher Thomas, my oldest and closest friend among—and before—the Dauntless, the only Erudite to transfer with me. "If you're really that desperate, you shouldn't be letting a first-timer lead, let alone a transfer." She grins, bumping me with her shoulder, and I feel myself starting to relax. She knows about the Instigate, of course she does (she knows everything about me in a way that an outsider would probably find slightly disturbing), but she’s the only person that I know isn’t going to hound me about it. Does she wish I would stop? Almost definitely. Will she try to make me? No.

 

"Well, the way I see it, if _I_ lose, the deal is off. He wins. But if _Peter_ loses…" I grin, the movement pulling at the six piercings on and below my lower lip. "The deal is null and void."

 

"Clever." She elbows me again. "I don't think Four will see it the same way, though. He still blames it for…everything that happened." She means Christian. I have to take a moment to remember that the loss was sudden and upsetting for all of us, and that she wasn’t mine alone. Saddened into silence, we look away from each other, and I blink rapidly against the burn of tears.

 

We reach the park after a few minutes of silence and I take the flag out of my pocket, unfolding it as I speak. "I," I say, holding it up, and pointing at myself for emphasis, "will put this in the trees. The rest of you…figure out some sort of plan. The decision on whether to go offensive or defensive or both is up to you. And remember, Peter is in charge." I smirk at him before beginning to scale a tree. The rough bark scrapes the sensitive skin in the middle of my palms, and I force myself to ignore how when I’m at ground level every pain is amplified. The flag gets draped over a lower branch, where someone tall could reach it, but I keep climbing until the branches start to crack under my weight. There are faction symbols carved into the trunk behind where my back will rest. Two—the tree for Amity, the eye for Erudite.

 

_"Do you miss them?" she asks, digging the knife further into the rough wood. I watch in silence for a moment, awed at her skill with a knife, even though it’s barely been three days since we transferred. What could they possibly be teaching them in Amity?_

_"I don't think so," I respond carefully. Dark hair falls over my eyes, and I brush it away, momentarily distracted by its new color. Hers is still sun-streaked and tied in a knot at the nape of her neck. "Not my family, anyway. I never really had one to begin with. But…it was more peaceful there than it is here."_

_"Peace is overrated." Satisfied with her tree-on-a-tree, she moves on to the unmarked section of bark beneath it. I realize a second too late that I made a mistake in saying that. There was a reason, after all, that she transferred from Amity, the faction where peace reigns above all else. "And we're never going to fully achieve it." She rocks back to examine her work and almost slips off the branch. I grab her around the waist, helping her regain her balance, and suddenly I notice how close we are, only inches apart. Her breath is hot on my mouth and her eyes have flecks of gold in them I couldn’t see before. I don't have time to speak before she closes that distance, and our lips meet._

The shouting of my team below jerks me violently from the flashback. I have to blink for a moment before I remember where I am, what’s going on, who’s here and who is not. _"There they are! Can't you see it moving?"_ I push myself to stand precariously on the branch, only my toes touching the bark through my boots, and am greeted with the top of the Ferris Wheel, spinning slowly.

 

"Yes," I whisper triumphantly, and descend the tree until my feet hit the ground and I’m met by the arguing of my team.

 

"It could be a trap."

 

"Who cares? I say we all go."

 

"They turned it on to lure us away." Asher pushes her bleached-platinum-blonde hair out of her face, frustrated. She’s probably a better tactical thinker than almost everyone here and I can tell it’s getting on her nerves, how no one else understands. "It's what you would do, isn't it? We're staying here."

 

Peter glares at her, momentarily forgetting that even though she is a member, I technically put him in charge. Not that it means anything when Asher puts her mind to something. She’ll always get her way. "Fine. We stay here."

 

"It's an easier way to win, anyway," Asher mutters. "Protect our flag and pick them off when they come for it. That's what we did when I was an initiate." Neither of us think it’s a good idea to mention that when we were initiates, our team lost. Badly.

 

I return to my perch, this time in a tree some distance from the flag and a bit closer to the ground. The bickering continues in hushed voices, even though the final decision has already been made. I can hear Peter and Asher going at it, their volume increasing to the point of whisper-shouting. If I were myself I would berate them for being so serious, but they're not as bad at strategy as I am at keeping my life together. I need this win, even my scattered brain knows it. But Four and his team will not go easy on us…

 

Suddenly the park is alive with shouts and the shooting of paintball guns. I jerk back to reality, cursing my withdrawal for taking me out of reality for such long periods of time. Safely concealed in the tree, I peer through the leaves to see my team and Four's fighting each other desperately. There are—fittingly—only four of them, so this will not last long, though I am prepared to wait all night.

 

Gripping my gun in one hand, I start to climb down, only to hear shouts of victory…from his team. Not mine. It was over almost before I even realized it started. Panicked, I look around until I spot a thin, bruised, all-too-familiar hand raising our flag in the air.

 

Next to me, Asher stands spattered with paint, a look of disbelief written plainly on her face. Why she thought that strategy would work, I don’t know. It was always doomed to fail a second time. She looks up at me, and her expression changes to one of worry. "Will you be okay?"

 

I blink rapidly until I am fully back in reality. The drugs. She’s talking about the drugs. Four may have won this game, but I am a Dauntless leader. He has to give it to me, I realize. I don’t know why I didn’t fucking think of it before. I can make him. I am in charge.

 

"Of course," I reply, a slow smile spreading across my face. "I'll be fine."

 


	8. Stabbed

The next morning I sit alone at the table beside Four's, turning a bran muffin in my scarred hands. I’m not sure whether or not I’ll actually be able to eat it, let alone keep it down. My stomach seems to have shrunk overnight, thanks to both withdrawal and the flashback-dream I had, in which I relived of my Choosing Ceremony. When I woke up, breathing heavily, blood dripped from half-moon marks in my palm, staining my new sheets. The only thing that forced me out of bed was the thought that I will win today. He made a mistake in refusing me, and I'm about to prove it to him.

 

The room quiets, a clear indicator that a leader has walked in, and when I look up I see Max has entered and is heading in my direction. I grin smugly and straighten up…just in time to watch him walk right past me and sit down next to Four. The grin slips from my face, and I crumble half of the muffin in my hand.

 

"Well," Max says, all business and no pleasure as usual. "Stage One is almost over. How are the transfers doing?"

 

He has no business asking Four. I am in charge. I seethe at the thought, pressing my fingers together so that almost none of my breakfast remains.

 

"For the most part, very well," Four replies carefully. "But there are always a few…"

 

Max nods gravely. "And have there been any incidents regarding the…?"

 

The chasm. It is a prime chance to put blame on me, and Four knows it. His eyes flit briefly to mine before he says, "No. Nothing at all." Why would he not tell him? There is no doubt in my mind that he dreams of me being removed from my position. What could he possibly gain from me remaining in power?

 

"Well, that's good." Max nods again, satisfied this time. His expression says _I put the right person in charge_ , but he didn’t. I am in charge. "But there will be. There always is, especially since—"

 

I clear my throat loudly, not able to take any more. Max jumps, and when his eyes meet mine I can swear he looks frightened. He must not have seen me, or at least that’s what he wants me to think. "Oh. Good morning, Eric."

 

I stand so I tower over his sitting frame, narrow my eyes to slits. "The incident you're referring to was a great personal tragedy to me. I'd appreciate it if you not bring it up again in my presence." I stride out of the room. Another reason for Four to withhold. I am unstable, as unstable as I was two years ago when it happened. Four blames the Instigate, and I blame Four.

 

~oOo~

 

I head down to the training room for a day of knife throwing with the slowly-improving transfers and find when I get there that I am shaking so badly I cannot stand still. But I must. I turn myself to stone nerve by nerve as they enter the room. To them I appear a statue, the pinnacle of controlled rage. My resolve weakens when she walks in, still grinning from her victory—although her joy seems to visibly diminish when she spots me—but I remain still, only my lips moving as I address the sluggish crowd.

 

"Tomorrow will be the last day of stage one," I say. My voice sounds…off. Too little sleep, too little relief. I choose to ignore it for now. "You will resume fighting then. Today, you'll be learning how to aim. Everyone pick up three knives. And pay attention while Four demonstrates the correct technique for throwing them."

 

Nobody moves. "Now!" My strained shout causes a tidal wave of movement toward the dagger-covered table. Four watches them scramble over each other with mild interest, and I glare at him when he isn't looking. On any other day I could demonstrate knife-throwing with ease, seeing as I was one of the best in my initiate group, but I am not up to it today.

 

"Line up!" I shout when he is finished. The transfers arrange themselves in a more or less straight line and begin to throw. Their technique is horrendous, and some of them—the Stiff, I note specifically—aren’t even actually throwing the knife yet. I don't watch them as closely as I should be. Instead I pace behind them, reverting from complete stillness to constant movement to hide my shaking. None of them look at me or in any other way acknowledge me, but I can sense their fear, that I am behind their backs.

 

After thirty minutes Al is the only one who has yet to at least graze the edge of the target. He tries and misses again and again, and I stride towards him, my anger getting the best of me. "How slow _are_ you, Candor? Do you need glasses? Should I move the target closer to you?"

 

It’s maybe a bit too satisfying to watch his face immediately flare up as he takes aim at the target and throws again. This time isn't any better—the spin he puts on the knife sends it slamming into the wall, where it clatters to the floor.

 

"What was that, initiate?" My patience is slowly slipping through thin fingers, and I’m not sure how much more of dealing with incompetent initiates I can take before I completely lose it.

 

"It—it slipped."

 

"Well, I think you should go get it." I glance at the other transfers, who are staring at us wide-eyed, daggers in hand. "Did I tell you to stop?"

 

I hear the sound of knives hitting the board. Al looks terrified. Now instead of beet-red his face is the pale white of a ghost, the same color I assume mine is right now, but it looks far less flattering on him. "Go get it? But everyone's still throwing."

 

"And?"

 

"And I don't want to get hit."

 

Probably a perfectly valid excuse in any other faction, but not in Dauntless. He’s made his first major misstep, and I can tell that he knows it. I smirk at him. "I think you can trust your fellow initiates to aim better than you. Go get your knife."

 

"No."

 

"Why not? Are you afraid?"

 

"Of getting stabbed by an airborne knife? Yes, I am!"

 

_And I'm afraid of death by withdrawal, but I'm still here, aren't I?_ "Everyone stop! Clear out of the ring. All except you." I stare hard at Al, surprised that he’s not shaking. "Stand in front of the target." He complies slowly, but once he reaches the target I look over my shoulder, staring down my personal demon. "Hey, Four. Give me a hand here, huh?"

 

He is wary approaching me. I can’t exactly blame him. We both know I've gone off the deep end. "You're going to stand there as he throws these knives," I say to Al, "until you learn not to flinch."

 

"Is this really necessary?" Four says. He sounds bored, but I’m not stupid enough to believe him. I wait, considering my answer, as we stare each other down. What can I say that will strike the fear of God into him, remind him that he has to comply with my demands?

 

"I have the authority here, remember? Here, and everywhere else." His face floods with color. He knows _exactly_ what I'm talking about.

 

" _Stop_ it."

 

For a second I think it is Christina speaking, since she’s just full enough of Candor impulsiveness to do something like that, but no, it's the Stiff. "Any idiot can stand in front of a target. It doesn't prove anything except that you're bullying us. Which, as I recall, is a sign of _cowardice_."

 

Anger flares hot and hard in my chest. "Then it should be easy for you," I say. "If you're willing to take his place."

 

She is, surprisingly. Maybe she’s a bit more like Four than I thought, which could be a real problem for me if she ends up a member. She stands in front of the board, endures Four's taunting and a single nick from the third and final knife. He’s gone easy on her, I can tell, but it’s an impressive display nonetheless.

 

"I would love to stay and see if the rest of you are as daring as she is, but I think that's enough for today." I lower my voice, murmuring the rest of my thoughts only to Four. "Well. That should scare them, huh." Turning away, I press my hand to the Stiff's shoulder. She is slender and small, like Christian, but that is where the resemblance ends. She has none of Christian’s bordering-on-insanity bravery. "I should keep my eye on you."

 

As I pass Four he grabs my hand, and I feel the slide of cool glass and dry paper against my skin. I have no idea how he managed to write me a note this fast, but I don't care. This is what I've been waiting for. This is what I need to feel like a human being again. I increase my pace until I am practically sprinting out the door…right into Christina. Most of the initiates have already left. Why did she have to be the last one out the door?

 

"Watch where you're going!" she snaps, turning around. When she sees it's me, her face drains of color. She looks terrified. _Did I do that?_ A sudden pang of guilt shoots through me, but it’s overwhelmed by the need to be by myself, just me alone with a needle.

 

"I—I'm sorry," she stammers, backing away slowly. I reach out, surprising even myself, and lay a hand on her arm. The other still clutches the vial so tightly that a voice in the back of my head worries it will break.

 

"It's fine."

 

She stares with panicked eyes at my hand, and I slowly let it drop back to my side. The desire is burning a hole in me. I need to leave _now._

 

"Excuse me," I mutter, stepping around her and heading to my room, my pace increasing every second. Clutching my cure, I tightly lock the door. I don't want to set it down for even a second, but I have to. I lift the edge of the shard of jagged glass serving as a mirror mirror and slide my hand under it until I find the edge of the hole. Contained in it is the box that holds my syringe collection. I sink onto the mattress, holding the container and the vial in my scarred fingers, and try to catch my breath again.

 

With shaking hands, I uncork the bottle, empty the contents into the syringe. I tie myself off with part of a shirt that used to belong to Christian. That is the easy part. Reminding myself that I’ll die if I don’t do this is not so easy. Slowly, carefully, I press down, the tip of the needle piercing my skin and pouring its contents into my bloodstream.  It’s ridiculous to think that I could feel the effects mere seconds after the syringe is empty, but as I remove the needle from my arm and slip the tie from around my elbow I already feel better. The syringe goes back into the box carefully, along with the empty vial, if for no other reason than so that I won’t step on it again. My free, still semi-limp hand brushes a piece of paper—Four's note—and I pick it up and read it:

 

_You have the authority. Here, and everywhere else._


	9. Visitation

The next day passes in a haze of Instigate and high temperatures. Christina wins her fight, but she wins against Al, who is obviously faking it, so it almost doesn’t count, at least in the minds of everyone watching. I shake my head, but don't comment. I am in a good enough mood to leave them alone. And the Stiff wins her fight against Molly. Maybe she won't turn out like Four after all. I prod with my tongue the hole where one of my teeth used to be. He knocked it out, though I will admit I wasn’t entirely undeserving of it.

 

Today, however, is Visiting Day, and I can't help stopping by the dorm to give the transfers some help. My own Visiting Day was one of the biggest disappointments in my eighteen years, and it was entirely because my expectations were set too high. I doubt many of them will see their families. I didn't, and I want to make sure they know how unlikely it is so they don’t end up like me (though it would be amusing to see how some of them react to being basically tossed aside).

 

"Attention!” I yell, leaning on the doorframe of their dormitory. Some of them stop what they’re doing and look up at me, but a few of the more arrogant ones—Peter, Drew—continue to ignore me. I shrug it off. I don’t want a repeat of yesterday. “I want to give you some advice about today. If by some miracle your families do come to visit you, which I doubt, it is best not to seem too attached. That will make it easier for you, and easier for them. We also take the phrase 'faction before blood' very seriously here. Attachment to your family suggests you aren't entirely pleased with your faction, which would be _shameful_. Understand?"

 

I don't get much in the way of responses, everyone is too nervous to do much more than mumble. My eyes are on the Stiff, but she doesn’t do me the pleasure of meeting my gaze. They file out past me. Christina doesn't even glance my way. Trying to get over the unnecessary hurt that bubbles up inside me, I distract myself by halting the Stiff.

 

"I may have underestimated you, Stiff. You did well yesterday."

 

"Thank you," she responds, clearly uncomfortable. It's obvious she doesn't want to be around me, so instead of keeping her, I head toward the Pit. There are better things I could be doing with my time, like getting drunk and forgetting what happened on this day two years ago.

 

I'm not expecting some big reunion or even any kind of acknowledgement—my few friends rarely attend Visiting Day, since most of them are transfers shunned by their families like me—but when I reach the Pit a group of Dauntless by the chasm yell my name loudly. I move towards them: David, Asher, and Ivoree, an artificially-redheaded girl who was a Dauntless-born initiate when I transferred. She’s the only Dauntless-born who bothered to make friends with the transfers right away, and she fell right in with Asher and me. I am raising my hand in greeting when they shift, revealing a fourth, and I freeze. It is Isaac Abraham, Christian's brother.

 

I am cautious approaching them, wondering what someone who chose to stay Amity would be doing in the Dauntless compound. He made his distaste of the Dauntless lifestyle very clear when he came to visit Christian on my Visiting Day. His red clothes look startlingly out of place. He hoists a black leather satchel higher on his shoulder. When I reach them, he won't meet my eyes, just hands the satchel to me.

 

"I heard you were running low," he mutters, and turns to leave. I slide my hand under the flap and there are three liquor bottles, all washed out and filled with Instigate. _My hero,_ I think, but we don't acknowledge each other. I just let him leave. How he heard about this, I don’t know, but many drugs that stemmed from the same research that produced Instigate require ingredients grown in Amity, so some dealer somewhere must have a connection with both of us. I don’t voice my thoughts as I let him walk away. This place has a bad connotation for him. If I'm being honest with myself, I avoid the chasm as much as possible for the same reason he does.

 

"Well," Ivoree says, leaning on the railing and taking a long pull from a flask. As far as my addiction goes, she is almost completely in the dark. She only knows that sometimes I get irritable and tired for no apparent reason, and I’d like to keep it that way. I’m going down one day, and I’d like to take as few people with me as possible. That little exchange, I'm sure, made no sense to her. "How are the initiates?"

 

She is talking about the Dauntless-born. She grew up with them, of course they’re the ones she would care about. I've only spent a few hours with them, amounting to a little halfhearted observation and one short speech about the purpose of the things they learn in initiation. I shrug. "Lauren's their instructor, not me. I've mostly been with the transfers. But I know Zeke's brother is there. And Shauna's sister."

 

I will never have a sibling transfer into Dauntless. One, because I am from Erudite, and two, because my mother is an unlovable person, and therefore I have no siblings, natural-born or otherwise. I wasn't even conceived naturally. (I am what Asher jokingly refers to as a 'simulation baby.') But, unlike most people, the thought of being alone doesn't bother me. I've had eighteen years to get used to it.

 

"My sister'll be an initiate next year," David says, trying to make small talk because he knows exactly why Isaac was here, and though he’s grudgingly helped me out in the past, I know he doesn’t approve. "She'll probably stay in Candor, though."

 

Asher pouts. "That's not fair. There won't be any initiates from Camp Eric next year."

 

After the initiation process was over and we were all made members, we unofficially split up into two groups of four friends, based on bonds formed during initiation (or before, in cases like my and Asher’s practically lifelong bond). The Dauntless-born who'd ranked ninth and tenth were fence guards, and my group (dubbed "Camp Eric," since I was a Dauntless leader, and second-ranked in my year), comprised almost entirely of transfers except for Ivoree, had only briefly met them, even our token Dauntless-born. I tend to stay close to my group. They are the only real friends I have.

 

David plucks the flask from Ivoree's hands and tosses it into the chasm. “You're drunk enough already," he says firmly. She lurches after it, and her whine turns into a scream as she lurches forward, stomach slamming into the railing. She doubles over, and David lunges for her, wrapping his arms around her waist and hauling her away from the railing. They are both breathing heavily, panicked, and they won't look at each other.

 

Asher and I exchange looks, and she jerks her head towards the path that leads down into the chasm proper. We leave them and head down, grabbing at handholds on the slick wall, and coming to rest perched on a rock only a foot above the water.

 

"What is going on with you?" she demands, trying to force eye contact. I let her. She’s the only one who can get away with it. "You're not yourself."

 

I clear my throat. Mist sprays onto my boots. "One of the initiates. A Candor transfer. Her name is Christina."

 

Over the close roar of the river, I hear her sharp intake of breath. She can more or less read my mind, and it’s clear she knows exactly what went through my fucked-up head the first time I heard her name. "And?"

 

"I dangled her over the chasm."

 

There. I said it. I'd gone too far, admitted to it. She turns to look at me, too stunned to form words beyond "Why?"

 

It’s a rhetorical question. She knows why. She just wants to make me say it, to realize just how horrible a person I am. "I just…" I stare hopelessly at my hands. Scarred, dirty, thin fingers. Hands that only know how to hurt. "I don't think I could stand anything that reminds me of…you know. They're nothing alike. She survived." I close my eyes, and her face slips over my lids. "And now I can't get her off of my mind."

 

This time the sound she makes is a choked laugh. "Well, when you figure that out, let me know." It is silent for a while, and when I open my eyes she is gone, and I am alone in the chasm.


	10. Sighted

I wake up that morning thinking about Christina. The ghost of a migraine is starting behind my forehead the first sign of withdrawal (though it won’t hit in full force for a few days yet), but lucky for me, I have a surplus of Instigate hidden behind the mirror. I stumble out of bed and stare at my reflection in the broken glass. Two of the piercings in my lip are bleeding—I must have been biting my lip while I was asleep. I scratch the dried blood off with my fingernail, hoist the satchel over my shoulder, and leave the room.

 

As soon as I'm out the door I run headfirst into Four. His eyes fix on the syringe box in my hand, narrow into a glare. He knows exactly what I’m doing, though not where I’m going to do it, for which I am eternally grateful. "You seem busy," he says, words clipped and uncomfortable, "so I won't keep you long. Edward got stabbed in the eye last night. Be prepared for the fallout." He backs away, clearly disgusted by me and my vices. I ignore him, turning instead down a series of deserted hallways pointing the opposite direction, trying to find a place where I can shoot up alone.

 

It seems I won't have much luck. At the dead end of the last hallway, just out of range of a blue light, someone sits raising a bottle to their lips. I feel anger surge in between my ribs. I thought I was the only one who knew about this place. I step forward into the light and they freeze, like a child caught with their hand in the cookie jar. I catch sight of a bruised wrist, tanned skin. Christina.

 

"What are you doing here?" I ask. In dim illumination I see her open her mouth as if to respond, but then she closes it, remains silent. I hold out my hand, but instead of giving me the bottle like I expect, she presses a small black container I didn’t even notice before into my palm. I open it and find about a hundred (probably more) little white pills. I know them well: Sighted, a watered-down, solidified, less addictive version of Instigate, one of the first versions of this particular vein of drug that made it past lab testing, though not for the reason they hoped.

 

"How did you get this?” I demand, closing the case and holding it up. She bites her lip nervously, and I crouch down so we are at eye level, forcing her to meet my eyes.

 

"From no one you know." It surprises me how she is able to repress telling the truth, which for some Candor I've met seems to be as instinctual as breathing. But, I remind myself, she isn't Candor anymore. She's Dauntless. The reason she is here is because she didn’t fit in with them anymore.

 

"Why aren't you celebrating with your faction-transfer friends? You're in no danger of being factionless." I know she ranked fourth. Word travels fast, especially during initiation, and the rankings are the subject of gossip and speculation throughout the faction, not just among those who are in close contact with the initiates.

 

"No, I'm not," she says, glaring at me, "but I stayed up last night to clean blood off the floor because someone got stabbed in the _eye_. And now _he_ might be factionless." She slumps back against the wall, as if talking about it drained any energy she might have had left, rendering her a boneless pile of sadness. "So I'm not really in a partying mood. Can I have that back?" she asks, nodding at the pill case.

 

Maybe it's just to annoy her, or maybe I'm desperate for an easy fix, but I shake a few pills into my palm and swallow them dry. They scratch on their way down my throat, but similar to the stinging of the needle, it is a good burn. She glares at me and snatches the case back, closing it with a snap. There are two bottles on the floor next to it. One has liquor in it. The other appears to be water, but it gives me a vicious idea that tears through me with a force I can’t resist.

 

"You don't need those," I say, motioning to the closed pill case. She sets it down slowly, looking curious. Against my better judgment, I reach into my satchel. "I have something better."

 

There is a part of me that is screaming, that knows this is wrong. I only have so much, and to waste it on someone who doesn’t fully appreciate its value might eventually mean the end of me. But the larger part of me that wants, craves, needs, ignores it.

 

I take a bottle out of the satchel, weighing it in my palm, and break the seal, letting the heavy scent fill the hallway. Hesitantly, she tries to take it from my hands, and I grip it tightly, instinctively. It takes me a moment to remember that she’s not going to run off with it, how can she, when she doesn’t even know what’s in it? So I relinquish control of the bottle and watch her weighing it much like I had.

 

"What is it?" She closes her eyes and inhales deeply. A satisfied look crosses her face, and I know why. The smell alone is almost as addicting as shooting it up.

 

"Instigate. Hell and heaven, all in one convenient little bottle. I wouldn't drink it," I say as she raises it to her lips. She stops short, the bottle half a centimeter from her full mouth. "You'll die if you do."

 

"Then what do you do with it?" Her Candor eyes see too much, but they don't see this. She’s still naïve, new to this world. I open the box and take out a syringe. Her face drains of color, much like mine did that first time…

 

_"Are you sure about this?" She wraps a piece of fabric tightly around my bicep, effectively cutting off my circulation. Her slim fingers are quick and precise, touching only where they need to. I want her to stop, to rest her hand on my already-numbing arm and reassure me that we’re not going to get caught, that we’re going to be fine and this won’t affect me in any way. I need it, no matter how stupid it is._

_"I know what I'm doing," she answers, rolling her eyes. The needle is frighteningly long and sharp—more so, even, than the ones they use during the aptitude tests. I swallow anxiously as she fills the syringe with a murky brown liquid. "It’s watered down," she says in response to my questioning gaze. "If I started you right away with the amount I'm taking, you'd overdose almost immediately."_

"I'm not sure I want you sticking a needle in my arm…" she protests, but it sounds halfhearted and unsure. The curiosity in her voice is evident. She wants it, whether she realizes it or not. I grab the second bottle, tasting it first to make sure it’s water, and fill the syringe, adding just a few drops of Instigate. Not much…only enough to ensure she feels it.

 

_"This shouldn’t hurt." I am tied off nice and tight, so I can barely feel my arm. I don't look as it goes in, but I know when it does. The flash of pain is quick and possibly imagined, but the pressure is not. "It'll take a few minutes to kick in," she says, preparing a second syringe for herself, this one less diluted than the first. "But it'll feel good when it does. Trust me."_

_So I sit and wait while she shoots up, and then for a few more minutes after that, and just when I am beginning to doubt her, I feel it._

_And everything changes._

I find the piece of fabric and carefully loop it around her arm, tying it expertly. The first time I tried to do it on myself my hands shook so badly that after a few minutes I gave up and just stuck the needle in. The whole time I’m pulling the knot taut against her arm, flesh and muscle, she watches me nervously. "This is safe, right?"

 

"Trust me," I say as the needle slides under her skin. I press down slowly, looking her in the eyes the whole time. "I know what I'm doing."


	11. Affect

The aftereffects of taking Instigate for the first time—even a watered-down version like the one that was currently flowing through her veins—aren't pretty. When the high wears off, you're left with things I now only experience during withdrawal. The headache is the worst, but there’s also dry mouth and throatache, upset stomach, the constant feeling of having no control over your own body to contend with. I haven't yet seen Christina, but there is no doubt in my mind that she has at least one of these symptoms, if not all of them.

 

I, on the other hand, haven't felt this good since…well, since my last high, which ended well and truly a few days before the initiates arrived. My eyes are wide open, taking in my surroundings clearly. Blood pumps through my veins at an alarming pace (heightened heart rate is one of the side effects during the high) but I feel so ecstatic that I barely even recognize the danger it poses. I sit alone in the cafeteria, feeling the burn of the drug through my body, for once actually enjoying the fact that I am alive.

 

"Someone looks happy today," a voice remarks semi-sarcastically, and a few seconds later Asher drops into the seat across from me, looking tired and bedraggled. Her artificially blonde hair is loosely tied at the nape of her neck, and, devoid of the usual kohl rims, the circles under her eyes are more obvious than ever. I can't understand it, how someone could be so upset on a day like this, but leave it to Asher to ruin it with a dose of reality.

 

"What's your problem?" I ask. She doesn't answer, as per usual, instead leaning around the table to stare at…something. The beat in my chest stutters. "What happened to your knee?"

 

I hastily move a black-gloved hand to cover the slowly yellowing bruise, visible only through the rip in my black jeans. Silently, I curse myself for not wearing something different, if for no other reason than to avoid her incessant questioning. "Nothing.” I can't tell her how I got it, or that I hope I'll get another one tonight…since I left an unsigned note in one of the drawers Christina's keeping her things in. I'm counting on the fact that she'll know it's me, and that no one else finds it, though no other initiate would know about the dead end where we met last night.

 

"Bullshit. No way is that nothing. Now are you going to tell me or do I have to force it out of you?" She raises one perfectly sculpted eyebrow, and even devoid of makeup so that the tiredness in her face is blatant, she intimidates me, because I know she’ll stop at nothing to force it out of me.

 

I slide my hand off my knee and fold it with my other one on the tabletop. There's no use not telling her, she’ll figure it out eventually, even if that means somehow hearing it through the grapevine. I know she can keep a secret. Besides, if I don't tell her now, she'll keep pestering me until I do.

 

I lean forward, indicating that she should do so too, and pitch my voice low. The anticipation on her face is obvious, and I have a feeling she’s expecting something other than what I’m about to say. "I saw Christina last night. Alone."

 

" _Oh_." She raises an eyebrow at me. Of course she'd jump to _that_ conclusion, although given the way I worded it, I can’t entirely blame her.

 

"No, not like that." I can't help but roll my eyes at her. "We just—you know that hallway by my room? The dead end?" She nods. "I found her there drinking. We just sat. And talked."

 

"And shot up," she says accusingly. I open my mouth in a halfhearted attempt to respond, but no words come out. "Don't try to lie to me, Eric Matthews." I flinch at the sound of my (rarely used) surname. Damn her for not being unobservant like most of the other people I associate with. "You're in too good a mood _not_ to be high."

 

She knows me too well. It's times like this when I rethink my decision to transfer with her. Sometimes it’s painful to watch the look in her eyes when she realizes what I’ve done, and every time I say I’m thinking about quitting sticks in my throat like cement, hardening into bitterness. She can always see right through me. "Okay. I shot up. What's your point? You already know I'm a filthy addict."

 

"I know. It's not you shooting up I have a problem with." She pauses, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. "Well, I do have a problem, with that, but that's another argument for another day. My problem right now is that you also shot _her_ up."

 

"How do you know that?"

 

She narrows her eyes at me, then jerks her head at someone walking into the cafeteria behind me. I turn, and even my drug-addled brain can register the jolt of shock when I see her—because it's Christina.

 

I was right to assume that she would look like she felt. Not that she looks bad—quite the opposite, in fact. She always looks good, and I don’t know that I’ve ever seen her look better, knowing what I know about what she did last night. But I can tell by her expression that she has a headache, and probably wishes she were somewhere else. Probably back in the dorm, sleeping it off, hopefully anticipating the next time as much as I am.

 

Maybe it was a bad idea to introduce her to the dark joys of Instigate right before Stage Two of initiation started.

 

But it's too late for regret now. Last night is in the past, and neither of us can do anything to change it. She catches my eye and freezes, causing Will, who was walking in behind her and trying to hold a conversation, to crash into her. He asks her something—if she's okay, most likely, because that seems like the sort of thing he would do—and she snaps to, tearing her gaze away from me before he can figure out who she's staring at, before either of us can acknowledge the other. I can't tell whether or not she wishes it hadn't happened. I can only wait and hope she'll be there tonight.

 

"Hello?" Asher waves her hand in front of my face, grinning halfheartedly.. "Earth to Eric. Damn, I didn't know you'd get _that_ distracted. Okay. Listen to me." She puts her hands on my shoulders. They’re small and warm, and they feel like home. "She is a faction transfer. You are a Dauntless leader. Whatever sick little fantasy you're playing out in your head is never going to happen."

 

I shrug out from under her hands, embarrassed at what she's assumed. Never mind that she’s right. "Jumping to conclusions, Ash? Remember, I'm innocent until proven guilty."

 

"Yeah, whatever. Hey," she says, perking up, "are you coming to the rave tonight?"

 

_Ah, hell_. I'd completely forgotten. Once a month, my little group and some of our older friends throw a party in the abandoned building next to the Dauntless compound. It’s loud, pointless, and the best time I ever had, the perfect escape from the stress of being a leader, and there are more often than not various drugs involved. It’s a massive draw to me, even though the voice in the back of my head knows that I shouldn’t be mixing Instigate with anything else, technically not even alcohol. But if there was even a slight chance that Christina would show up…

 

"I don't know." Her face falls. I feel a twinge of guilt that I’ve been ignoring her lately, leaving our friendship to wither, though I doubt it would ever die out completely. We’ve known each other too long for that. "I'll try, I promise."

 

"Yay!" Sometimes I just don't understand how she can change from happy to sad and back again, like a light switch. But her happiness is contagious, and I find myself grinning, though it feels stretched and forced on my face, especially when I look back over at Christina out of the corner of my eye. "Are you gonna drink that?" she asks, nodding at the half-full cup of coffee in front of me. I’d been sipping on it when she sat down across from me, and even though my appetite has all but vanished, I pick it up.

 

"Yes." I finish it off in one long drink, ignoring the fact that I've probably just scalded my throat. "I have a feeling I'll need it."


	12. Hallway

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here I am, back from a nearly two-year hiatus. I'll go into more detail in a post on my writing tumblr (bellumgerere) but you still won't be seeing anything new from me for about a month - everything I'm writing now is going on a backlog so that I'll be able to post weekly updates starting early-mid August and have a cushion in case there's a week I can't write. A reminder, this story is posted in full on my FFn account, and what I'm posting here are the edited chapters, so this work is complete. My goal is to have all of it and the sequel edited and posted here as well before new chapters start.  
> If you're still here, thanks for sticking with it so long!

At this very moment, the rave is going on next door, but it feels as if it could be a world away. I could join them, I know. I could forget about this hopeless cause and drink myself into oblivion, smoke and shoot whatever they put in front of me with the reckless abandon the old Eric used to have. It would be easy, and definitely worth the hangover I'd have tomorrow morning. But I can't shake the voice in the back of my head—one that sounds strangely like Christian, singsong and careless—that keeps whispering _maybe she will show up…maybe she will show up…_

So I sit alone in the hallway, and I wait.

I don't have a watch, but judging by the pins and needles in my legs ( _dammit, Eric, don't think about needles right now_ ), it's been at least an hour. Probably more. As Four has pointed out more times than I care to remember, I’m horrible at keeping time. The satchel is ready next to me. One bottle rests carefully inside, wrapped in a piece of cloth that used to be a blue shirt, a remnant of my Erudite days that’s now torn and stained bloody. The other two bottles are still sealed and hidden behind the mirror. I wouldn't risk getting them all out at once, it's too dangerous, especially when we only need one. Drugs aren't exactly illegal here, but I’m in a prominent position, and if I get caught, there's no telling what the other leaders will do to me. They’ve made it more than clear that I’m expendable, and I’d rather not test that theory now.

I am a slave to my basest instincts. I'm hungry, I eat. I'm thirsty, I drink. I’m tired, I spend the day sleeping instead of doing my actual job. I start to feel even the slightest hint of withdrawal, I shove a needle in my arm, consequences be damned. _(Here I go again. Maybe if I stop thinking about it, the urge will go away._ ) It's not that I _like_ having to do that every time I get a headache bad enough. I don't like the drugs. Really, I don't—not like I used to, anyway. But they sure as hell like me.

Just as I'm thinking this and trying not to laugh at my own morbid sense of humor, I hear footsteps down the hall. I'm scared as hell and paranoid, thinking it's one of the other leaders or Four— _please, anyone but Four_ —come to tell me off and haul me away to face my judgement. But no, it's Christina, and even after a day of simulations and headaches she still manages to look…good. (It’s not a surprise—she always looks good. I wish I could look like she does after a day of withdrawal.)

"What did you do to me?" she demands, fists clenched at her sides, and I’m surprised she doesn’t slam her palms into my chest because that’s what I would do if I were in her position. "You hit me with—whatever _that_ is” –she stops and motions at the bottle— “and it felt amazing all the way back to the dorm, and I just kind of laid around for a bit thinking how great it was, and all of a sudden I just…crashed." She begins to pace back and forth under the blue light. I follow her with my eyes—turning my head would be too much effort. Even with a headache, her movements are graceful and smooth. Anyone looking at her wouldn’t even be able to tell what she was feeling. "And I woke up this morning and my throat was dry and I have this god-awful headache that's been following me around all day and—" She stops abruptly, out of breath, staring at me. I raise an eyebrow in an attempt to prompt her into speaking. In the dim light her cheeks are tinged pink. "Is this what it's like for you?"

"Is—what?" My voice sounds slightly breathless, like I just ran a hundred miles, even though I haven't moved for over sixty minutes.

"Do you feel like this? When you don't take it?" She pauses, and something seems to click in her mind. "Is that why you were so shitty to us at first—because you were in withdrawal?"

Slowly, I nod, half hoping my admission will scare her away. It doesn't. Instead she sinks to her knees until she's sitting in front of me.

"And it felt like this…all that time?"

The words stick in my throat, and it takes a couple tries to make them come out. "Almost the whole first week."

She looks stunned. I don't blame her. "Wow. No wonder you acted like you did. I can't imagine walking around like that all the time. I mean—it doesn’t excuse you being kind of shitty. But I understand it a little better now." She shifts so she's sitting next to me instead of across from me. I can feel her closeness, and I'm suddenly short of breath. "Can I ask you something? It's kind of…personal."

"More personal than what you've already asked me?"

She laughs, but the sound is mirthless and short-lived. "Yeah, a bit. Were you…on this…when you were an initiate?"

Oh. "I see what you meant by 'personal.'" It's a difficult question, and I'm not quite sure how to answer it. I don't know what she wants me to say. I decide to go with the truth—she'll be able to tell if I'm lying. "Not at first. Another transfer got me hooked. But I had no problem with the needles." My voice turns bitter. "I'd been a simulation test subject all my life."

She sucks in a sharp breath. The admission surprises even me. I hadn't meant for her to know that part. It just—slipped out. "What was that like?"

"Awful. You wouldn't believe the number of times things go wrong before they go right." I slide my hand into the satchel, run my fingers over the bottle. "And then I found this, and it was perfect the first time. I was amazed. I didn't even know that was possible. It seemed too good to be true."

She nods like she understands, but I have a feeling she's just trying to be nice. Her eyes flit over to the satchel, the look of longing in them obvious and unmistakable. I know before she opens her mouth what she's going to ask. I wish she wouldn't, but…

"Can we do it again?"

"I…" My hand is out of the satchel as soon as she says it. Honestly, I don't want to share any of my precious stash with her—or anyone. "I don't think that's such a good idea." I try to sound apologetic. "You need all your brainpower for stage two. If you have a headache every morning because you're Instigate-hungover…you're not going to do well."

"I suppose you're right." She looks at me intently. "I'll be here tomorrow night, then."

This isn't right. I feel…excited. I realize I'm actually looking forward to this, and the thought shocks me into standing.

"Are you okay getting back to the dorm on your own?" I ask. When she nods, I start to walk away. "Good, because I have somewhere I need to be."


	13. Rave

The 'building' next to the Dauntless compound where we hold the raves is a building in name only. More accurately, it's a hollow shell. There's no roof, so moonlight streams in freely, interspersed with the same blue lights that we use in the Pit. Four brick half-walls, crumbling and cut off at random places above my head, surround me. The one facing the street has a door-sized hole cut out of it, but no actual door. Music blasts through the space, thanks to the stereo system I managed to wrestle out of my old faction. (Being the only son of Erudite's leader occasionally has its perks. Usually, though, all it gets me is a needle to the neck.) It looks exactly the same as any other rave, but somehow it feels…different.

I don't have much time to think about this because the second I enter, Camp Eric descends upon me. Asher looks much better than she did this morning, her hair brushed and the circles under her eyes hidden by black kohl. She's wearing a barely-there black dress and heels, and holding a dark brown bottle of liquor in one pale hand. She throws her arms around me drunkenly, and I have to stumble to regain my balance. David and Ivoree hang back, less intense in their greetings. I've never been as close with them as I am with Asher, who I practically grew up with. When I wasn't being used as a human pincushion, we were inseparable, and that had carried on to our new lives here. The other two are close to each other, but there is an obvious divide straight down the middle.

"I'm so glad you came," she mumbles as we untangle ourselves. A few people have been watching me, but when I look at them they pretend not to notice us. I have trouble convincing them that I am a real person as well as a Dauntless leader, even though just two years ago I was in their position. "Did she show up?" Asher asks, pulling my attention back to her.

"I don't know what you mean." Normally this subtle cue would have worked on her, but she's obviously more than a little wasted, so she doesn't catch it.

"Christina." She slurs her name, so it comes out 'Chrissina.' "Weren't you supposed to meet her tonight to get high or something?"

She doesn't notice anything amiss about her question, but then again, she wouldn't. However, Ivoree looks shocked, and David's brow is furrowed, like he's thinking hard. "Christina," he says. "I knew a Christina in Candor. Is she the one who transferred to Dauntless?"

"I don't know," I say. "But there's a Candor transfer in this group named Christina, so they could be the same person."

"What were you doing with her?" He looks suspicious, and I can't say I blame him.

"Just sitting. And talking."

"And shooting up," Asher sings. I elbow her hard in the side. "Ow! What was that for?"

"Your big mouth." I turn back to David. "We didn't shoot up. I only saw her for a few minutes, then I came straight here."

"A few minutes is enough time."

I roll my eyes. "Look, are you really going to believe everything Asher says under the influence?"

For the first time he actually cracks a smile. "I guess not. Remember the one time when—"

"Eric!" Asher says loudly, pressing the bottle into my hands, her timing nearly perfect. "Why aren't you drinking?"

"Good question." I tilt the bottle back and let the liquor burn a fiery trail down my throat. I drink several shots' worth in one go, so just a few minutes later I start to feel lighter…less inhibited.

Asher grabs my hand and swings it back and forth as she dances around me. I move in place a little but am mostly still. Even drunk, I am not as uninhibited as she is. The knowledge that I am a leader at all times, that I need to be feared and respected, is still lurking in the back of my mind.

The song changes to something slower and she collapses against me, though hardly anyone else notices the switch in music; they just continue dancing, most of them too drunk to care. Beside us, David and Ivoree stand unusually close, talking in hushed voices. I can’t make out anything they’re saying. "Eric?" she asks. Her voice has changed—she's having one of her crazy mood swings again—to something mournful.

"Yeah?"

"Do you like Christina more than me?"

I'm as shocked at the question as I am at the fact that she's pronounced Christina's name properly—no slurring involved—so I answer automatically. "No, of course not."

"Are you sure?"

"Don't be like that, Ash. You always get jealous when I'm friends with other girls. You know I don't like it." But I know I can’t blame her too much. I’m the same way.

"That didn't answer the question."

"Ash." I push her away from me, my hands on her shoulders. "You have been my best friend for as long as I can remember. Nothing Christina and I do is going to change that. She's not replacing you."

"Good," she says, and, slipping out from under my hands, she leans up to kiss me.


	14. Again

_I'm strapped to a table in an isolation tank, the lights above me painfully bright. Dark hair falls in my face and I can't brush it away, can't do anything at all. Instead of Erudite blue I wear the white of test subjects; my mother stands above me holding a syringe filled with Instigate, saying "This'll only hurt a bit…"_

I wake with a start, wondering why I had that particular nightmare instead of one of my more frequently occurring ones. My head hurts, and I don't know if it's from a hangover or a weak strain of withdrawal. Or both. Something (someone?) warm is pressed against my side. A hand rests on my chest, but it's not mine—too small, the black fingernail polish not chipped enough. I look around in the dim light. There wasn't anything around when I left, but now clothes are strewn across the floor.

Suddenly I realize what it all means. With a growing feeling of dread, I turn and see Asher next to me, still asleep. We're both naked except for the sheets, which are tangled around us. The same thing happens after almost every rave, but I thought we'd decided last time would be _the last time…_ the same thing we say every time.

Just as the bitter feeling starts to creep in, she stirs, opens her eyes. "You were having a night terror," she says, almost defensively, when I stare at her. "It woke me up. It was the one about your mom forcing Instigate into you, wasn't it?"

"How did you know that?"

She grins and taps the side of her head. "I keep telling you, I'm psychic."

"Well, you're lucky you didn't mind-read the dream I had last night."

"Oh, really?" She sits up and stretches, all awkwardness—if there ever was any—gone. The friends-with-benefits situation has also been temporarily forgotten. "Was it about me? You know I don't like it when you dream about me behind my back."

I laugh in spite of myself. Asher has the ability to make even the most serious of situations hilarious, at least to me. She knows me well enough to know what’ll get me to lighten up. "No, it wasn't about you."

"Then what was it about? Do tell." She climbs out of bed and starts sorting through the clothes on the floor, tossing mine at me without looking.

I take a deep breath. This will probably make her mad, but I can't _not_ tell her. "It was about Christina."

She stops to look at me, but she doesn't seem upset. "And?"

"Well, that's pretty much it. Except that it woke me up, too." I raise an eyebrow, hoping she gets the point.

Her eyes widen, and she returns to her task, finding a scrap of black lace and pulling it over her legs, then picking up her dress. "Man, she's really gotten into your head. And I mean that in every way possible."

"Shut up." I start to get dressed, restricting my movements only to what is necessary in order to keep my headache to a dull roar. I’m surprised I haven’t built up enough of a tolerance by now that one night won’t do this to me, and I wonder how long that will take. It would be nice to not have to worry about it all the time. "I have no idea how to fix this, Asher. I don't think she wants anything to do with me anyway."

"So you want to go back to how it was before, when you were shooting up alone?" She stands, fully dressed, and tosses her hair behind her. One of my absolute favorite things about her is the way that she’s never once judged me for doing what I do, and even now her tone is practical. I start to respond, but a knock at the door interrupts me. We share a confused look, then she shrugs and opens it.

And there's Four.

Asher, thank God, has the decency to look slightly embarrassed. "I need to talk to Eric," Four says, and she replies with "Yeah. Sure. No problem." She leaves, but not before throwing a significant look at me over her shoulder.

Four pulls the chain for the lights and sits down on the edge of the mattress because other than the dilapidated dresser, it’s the only piece of furniture here. "I'll never understand your choice in friends," he says, looking after Asher.

"She's not so bad once you get to know her."

He shrugs, like he was just trying to put me at ease and the comment didn't really mean anything. "I need to talk to you."

"I figured as much."

"It's about Christina."

I try to look like this wasn't what I expected. He's probably here to berate me more about the chasm-dangling incident, though it's a little late for that. "What about her?"

"Well, I was administering the tests for Part Two yesterday, and I noticed something…interesting."

I swallow hard. _Please don't give me another reason to want to kill you._ "And what would that be?"

"There was Instigate in her system."

_Hell_. "And so you immediately thought of me."

"There's no one else around who uses. At least, not that would be in regular contact with her."

"Look, I have a limited supply. I'm not going to give it all away to transfers."

"That's what I thought. So I asked her."

I inhale sharply. Christina was Candor up until a couple weeks ago. That means she's probably a bad liar. "And?"

"She denied it. I'll believe her—for now. But if this happens again, I have ways of making her tell the truth."

For a second I think he means he's gotten ahold of truth serum, but that's nearly impossible for someone not in Candor. He's just underestimating her stubbornness. "There's nothing to tell."

"We'll see. Well, I really don't want to be here any longer than necessary, so I'll leave you to your vices." He throws me a disgusted look and shuts the door behind him while I sit there in shock.


	15. Covet

I don't wait for Christina on the floor, as per usual. Instead I pace back and forth, from the dead end to the blue light, for what feels like forever but can't have been more than twenty minutes. My satchel is on the floor, but there's only a vial of Instigate in it, enough for one dose—which I fully intend to be mine. I will tell her that we can't do this anymore, she will leave, and I will shoot up alone.

The second I see her, my resolve almost breaks. She's in a black top that hangs off one shoulder, and tight black pants. I realize she's probably gotten dressed just for me, and the thought affects me in ways I can't even begin to describe. I am immensely gratified…and at the same time I want to rip the clothes off her. This shocks me. It shouldn't. I can pinpoint the exact moment my interest in her morphed into sexual desire—the second she felt the full effect of Instigate. Because everything I feel, every thought I have, is tied to it. I do my best to push the feelings down, but I’m not having much success.

She's come fully prepared, a bottle of water in one hand, a bottle of liquor in the other. "I'm not going to ask where you got the booze," I say, nodding at it. "But you should probably take it back."

She rolls her eyes. "You can't possibly be serious. Four got to you, didn't he?"

I stop pacing and stare at her. She's tall-almost my height. If she were wearing heels we would be at eye level. I can’t figure out how she knew about the little visit Four paid me this morning—surely he wouldn’t have told her about that—but I hold my tongue for now. That’s not the issue at hand. "You can't possibly be serious about throwing away your chance of becoming Dauntless for a few drops of a drug."

"Oh, that's rich coming from you. The filthy addict, trying to be a good little Dauntless role model."

I ignore the strange oxymoron that is the phrase 'Dauntless role model.' "I never said I was. What I'm saying is that it already controls my life. I don't want it controlling yours too. You’ve got what I don’t: a chance to cut this off early on, forget it ever happened."

She bites her lip—debating whether or not to tell the truth. "It was…difficult for me today, going without it. It was entirely out of my system, so Four didn't say anything to me, and that was good. But the headache just got worse and worse. I don't know if it's form this or whatever he's injecting me with, but—what's up with you?" she asks, finally noticing that I look horrified. Things suddenly became far more complicated than I thought it would be.

"You shouldn't still have a headache. That's something only a budding addict would—" I break off abruptly. Pieces of the puzzle are starting to come together in my head. "How long were you using before you came here?"

"Not long. A few months, maybe. We had it at parties a lot. The adults were okay with it as long as no one overdosed or got hooked, and we didn't try to lie about it. They’d probably have let us get away with murder, as long as we confessed. Why? Do you think it has something to do with this?"

"It definitely has something to do with this. What you’ve been using is basically watered-down Instigate in pill form. An oral version of what I gave you two nights ago. Instigate—and Sighted—were originally intended as painkillers. Instigate for hospitals and Sighted for home use. But because of their addictive qualities, they were both banned, even though Sighted is weaker. But in recreational doses you can get hooked just as easily."

"How did you know all that?"

"I was a test subject, remember? I was never tested on Instigate, but my mother helped develop it. I was too young to be part of the study. She’s got some sense of decency, at least."

"Oh. So…what you're saying is…I'm addicted to Sighted."

"There's a pretty safe bet you are, even if you're still in one of the early stages of addiction."

"And it'll make me more likely to get hooked on Instigate."

"Without a doubt."

"Oh." We sit down in complete silence, not looking at each other until she asks "So who's your mom?"

"What?"

"Your mother. If she was helping create a hospital-level painkiller, she must be pretty important. So who is she?"

I'm at a loss. If I tell her, I risk alienating her based on my mother's actions. If I don't, I alienate her because of mine. I answer her question with a question. "Well, how many truly important Erudite are there?"

"How do you expect me to know? I wasn't Erudite, former genius."

I suppose the nickname is meant to sting, but it doesn't. I heard worse during my time as an initiate, particularly from the Dauntless-born. "But you've heard of her. Especially if you've been defending your little Stiff friend against Erudite's reports."

"What? You mean those awful pieces of trash released by—" She sucks in a sharp breath, looking at me. Her eyes search my face and find the truth there. "Jeanine Matthews."

I nod. "I was born Eric Branson Matthews. The doctor who made sure I survived named me after himself, like he would've done for his son if he ever had one. She was already too busy hours after giving birth to even name me." I laugh humorlessly. "That should explain why I transferred. She always treated me like a test subject and never like her son."

I'm watching carefully for any signs of disgust, but to my surprise, I find none. "Who was your father? Was he brainwashed? I can't imagine anyone actually wanting to have sex with _that_."

"No one did. I don't have a father."

"Really? So they just…wow. I've heard of that, but I never met one."

"Could you please stop looking at me like I'm a science experiment?"

"Make me."

I suppress a sigh. She's too stubborn; she’s not going to leave until she gets what she wants. I look down at the bottle of water that's somehow made its way into my hand. "This is the last time," I tell her, resigned, as I prepare the syringe.

"Yeah, I doubt that."

As I slide the tip of the needle under her skin, something on her shoulder catches my eyes. A bandage. "You got a tattoo."

"Yesterday. Of the Dauntless seal."

I trace the skin around it, a little hesitantly. Our eyes meet, and I realize, more than a little reluctantly, that maybe it wasn't the drug that brought us here.


	16. Accuse

I wake pale and covered in cold sweat from another nightmare, this one of a particularly gruesome Dauntless death that happened sometime in the past year. They're becoming more and more frequent, and I can't help but wonder if they're the direct result of Instigate or if being overstressed is the problem—because I definitely am that. I'm still reeling over last night's revelation and the thought that I might have feelings for Christina has thrown me completely off-guard. Even more disturbing, though, is the fact that she might reciprocate those feelings. I don't understand it, because I am unlovable.

This thought consumes me as I sit alone in the cafeteria, trying to look as if I don't notice the poorly-disguised stares I'm getting from the other Dauntless. Asher is conspicuously absent—I wonder if she somehow knows I saw Christina again—but David and Ivoree spot me as soon as they walk in, and they join me after getting their food. They're awfully close to each other on the bench…maybe I missed something.

"Do you think it's possible," I say once they've sat down, "for someone to be in love with me?"

Ivoree chokes on her coffee trying not to laugh, but David looks thoughtful.

"Well, once they got over your complete lack of likable qualities, sure."

"I'm being completely serious."

"I know," he says, holding his hands up in a gesture of mock surrender. "But so am I. There are good things about you, Eric, but you never let people in far enough to see them."

Ivoree nods as she peels the wrapper back from a muffin. "The only times you're ever truly acting like yourself are when you’re with Asher." She looks up, suddenly more interested. "Why? Do you think Asher could be in love with you?"

"No! Of course not. We've been friends for as long as either of us can remember. It would just be awkward." I choose not to mention the recent incident. Or the ones before it. Or the fact that this has been going on for the better part of three years.

"I guess you're right," she says, biting her lip. "Who, then? Anyone I know?"

David is glaring at me, his brown eyes rimmed in kohl, though not as heavily as Asher and I tend to apply it. One might think he doesn’t look the part of a Dauntless—he is naturally tan, his lips are too full for his face, his hair's always messed up—and then he goes and pulls an expression like that out of nowhere.

"No, I don't think you know her," I respond carefully, trying to be vague. I know I’m not fooling him, but Ivoree seems pacified. "Besides, it doesn't matter. I'm not even sure exactly how she feels about me."

"Well, we know how she feels about your stash," David mutters. I kick him under the table.

"Guys!" Asher drops into the open seat next to me, holding a tray of food. I’m surprised—I didn’t even see her come in, and usually she would have shouted something at me. "Did you start talking about last night without me?"

"What happened last night?" Ivoree asks.

"That's what I'd like to know." Asher turns to look at me expectantly. Sensing David's oncoming meltdown, I try to avoid the question. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Yes, you do. We all know where you were last night."

"I don't," Ivoree complains. I feel a slight twinge of guilt that she is so often left out of the loop, but this is probably one loop she doesn’t want to be in. For someone who was Dauntless-born, Ivoree is surprisingly straight-edge.

"It's not something you want to know, trust me."

"Oh, _can it_ , David."

"Sorry, Your Dauntless Leadership. Or should I say Your Royal Stonerness?"

"Shut up!" Asher yells, bringing her hands down on the table. A few people turn to look at her, but not many. They’re used to these kinds of outbursts from her. "David, stop being a jackass. Eric…nothing I say is going to help you. You're beyond help." She rolls her eyes, but I see a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

"Wait, I still don’t get it." Ivoree looks from me to David to Asher and back again. "What's Eric doing?"

David gives me a look. "If you won't tell her, I will," he says, turning to her. "Eric's been having secret meetings with an initiate, a Candor transfer named—" He cuts off abruptly, focusing on something over my shoulder. "Christina."

He says her name at normal speaking volume instead of the whisper he’d been using, and the room is full of Dauntless chatter, but she turns toward us like she heard him. Her eyes land on me first, flit away, and widen when they settle on him. She starts toward our table after a few placating words to Will, who looks at us like we're a pack of wolves waiting to devour her. Her wave turns into a hand pressed against her forehead in the very same spot I get withdrawal headaches. My stomach drops. I’m suddenly glad I didn’t get anything to eat.

"David!" she says upon reaching the table. He gets up from his seat and hugs her (I try to pretend the sight doesn't make me seethe with jealousy). "What the hell are you doing here?"

"I live here, remember?" I am confused, then I realize: David is a Candor transfer. He actually mentioned knowing Christina at the rave. "But I didn't know you'd transferred until a couple days ago." He introduces her to Ivoree (who is polite) and Asher (who is trying not to laugh). When he reaches me, cold formality enters his tone.

"I think you already know Eric, right?"

"Yeah. He observed us in Stage One." She doesn't mention Instigate, or that I dangled over the chasm—though she seems to have forgotten all about the latter, in light of recent events. "Hi, Eric."

"Hey." When her eyes finally lock on mine, there is a question in them. I shake my head, moving as little as possible and praying David doesn't notice.

"Well," she says, turning back to him, "I should probably go. I think my friend is about to explode." She glances over her shoulder at Will, who continues to stare at us intensely. "We should hang out sometime, after this whole initiation thing is over." Following a quick smile and wave, she heads back to her table. David sits down and starts buttering a piece of toast, looking immensely pleased with himself.

"I didn't realize you meant _that_ Christina. There's more than one in Candor, you know."

"What?"

"Well, it's a pretty common name, and—"

"No, why is it so significant that it's _that_ Christina?"

"Oh. Easy." He shrugs. "We used to date." 


	17. Deny

" _What_?"

He shrugs again, completely unconcerned even though he’s just complicated what was an already delicate situation. "Yeah. For about a year," he says, his mouth full of toast. After he swallows and sets the rest of it down, he continues: "We broke it off after I transferred. I thought she would stay in Candor with Naomi," he explains, referring to his sister. "Obviously, she didn't."

"And you're sure you knew nothing about it?" I narrow my eyes at him.

"Looks like somebody's jealous," Asher sings. When I glare at her, she looks away and innocently shoves half a muffin in her mouth.

"I didn't have the faintest idea she transferred until you mentioned her at the rave," David says, drawing my attention back to him. He seems mildly offended that I would accuse him of lying. "And even then I wasn't sure it was the same Christina." He raises an eyebrow, a superior look on his face. "If it makes you feel any better, you're completely welcome to her now. Well, as long as—who am I kidding? I can’t convince you to stop."

For a moment I wonder if I am the only one who sees his gaze flick to Ivoree, but then Asher and I lock eyes and I'm sure she's noticed it too.

"That must be such a relief," she says, sugar-coating her voice to the point where it makes me nauseous. "Knowing she's only got one other boyfriend."

"Shut up, Asher."

"I was just kidding." She immediately drops the act, looking hurt. I'm the only one who can tell she's faking: Ivoree and David are glaring at me.

"You don't have to waste your death stares on me," I snap. It's all too much, there's no one truly on my side now, not even Asher really understands. David’s fed up with my habit, and Ivoree just…doesn’t know. No one ever told her. "I can take a hint."

I push myself away from the table, force myself one foot in front of the other one even though I feel a fissure opening inside me. I'm utterly alone. None of them are going to come after me. David won't apologize and Asher is hovering unsteadily on the razor edge between _me_ and _them_. Even I can't tell which side she'll tip over.

Lost in thought, I leave the cafeteria without bothering to look where I'm going. As a result I run straight into someone…Four. Because that's just what I need to brighten my day. He doesn't duck around me with a disgusted expression as he usually would. Instead he grabs my arm, ignores my protests, drags me to a deserted corner by the chasm. I jerk away and cross my arms, leaning against the wall.

"Desperate to talk to me, eh, Tobias? If you wanted my company that badly, you know my price." My old bravado is returning; I feel my lips curl into a familiar smirk. "I'm not asking much. Just enough for a needle. Maybe I'll even share it with you."

"Shut up." I barely see him move but I feel my back hit the wall, hard, no doubt leaving bruises through my leather vest. The smile drops from my face, and all the hatred I have for him comes rushing back in a flood. My hands itch to throw him over the railing, get rid of him once and for all. But I can't, I remind myself bitterly. I need to stay in control.

"You know, Eric," he threatens quietly, hands locked around my upper arms. "Believe it or not, I've been around you long enough to be able to tell when you're high. I know all of Instigate's telltale signs." His eyes narrow to accusing dark slits. "And that applies to everyone who uses it."

I swallow down any retort I might have made, determined not to give her—or me—away. His eyes are practically closed, he's glaring at me so hard.

"Christina looks good today."

"She always does." I clamp my mouth shut immediately. I didn't mean to say that. It just slipped out. But he's hit my weak spot and he knows it. I clench my fists at my sides, ready to do whatever it takes to get away from him.

"And you’ve noticed that?"

_Hell._ At this point I can only do what I do best—turn it back around on him. "And how's Tris today?" I ask. My voice is poison disguised as honey: I sound sincere, but we both know I only mean to hurt.

"I wouldn't know." His hands tighten. I've struck a nerve. "Don't change the subject. You and Christina shot up last night. I can tell. She keeps rubbing her forehead like she's got a headache."

Ah, headaches. The dead giveaway of the closet addict. "How do you know it's not from the simulation injections?"

"I don't know for sure. But in all the time I've been administering the simulations I've never once had anyone get a headache that bad from them."

"And a whopping one year of experience makes you qualified to say that?" I don't bother to hide the sarcasm dripping venomous in my voice. Why should I, when he already knows it's there?

"Don't contradict me." I’m starting to lose feeling in my arms. They're so thin his fingers overlap, pressing against my scars. "I just want you to say it, Eric. Look me in the eye and tell me she's not wrapped around your goddamn needle just like you are."

This I can answer. My eyes lock onto his, more blue and less gray than mine. "I’m not making her into an addict. That much I swear."

He starts to answer, but his watch beeps insistently, and he lets go of my arm to check the time. _Time for Stage Two_. His threatening glare says _This isn't over_ , but he doesn't make a sound as he walks away and leaves me rubbing my arms.

"No, I'm not making her into an addict," I repeat to myself quietly. "Only she can do that."


	18. Confess

I can barely remember a time when I wasn't spending every night in this deserted hallway. It's become my life, the only thing I truly look forward to. The perfect combination—Christina and Instigate. I know I should feel guilty, should consider kicking the habit and living a clean life.

But I don't. I won’t. So here we are.

I skip wearing a shirt because of how badly Four managed to bruise me up when he shoved me against that wall (not that I'd admit it to him). There are small cuts all over my back from the rough stone, and the fabric stuck to them painfully when I pulled it off earlier. I can't tell how Christina feels about this. It's too dark to really see her face, and besides that, I've never met a Candor so good at hiding her feelings. We've barely said two words to each other—she drinks the majority of a bottle of liquor and I finish off a pack of cigarettes, each of us lost in our own thoughts. She hasn't brought up Instigate, but I'm counting down the seconds until she does.

"Four interrogated me again today." Her voice is rough from silence and alcohol. It's the most beautiful thing I've ever heard. I hate myself for thinking it.

"And?" I'm sure she wouldn't give me away, but in the back of my mind there's still a little nagging voice, fueled by addiction, that is ready to silence her if she does. Not for the first time, I reflect for the briefest second on how truly fucked my priorities have become, but at this point there is truly no hope for me. I’m trapped.

"I denied, of course." She sits the bottle down and pulls her knees up to her chest, resting her chin on them. "He let it drop. But I could tell he didn't believe me. He might go to the authorities—" She breaks off, staring at me. "You're the authorities."

"That didn't stop him from attacking me this morning." I lean forward in the light, so the bruises and abrasions on my back are faintly illuminated. I hear her sharp intake of breath, and then—shocking me into silence—the tips of her thin fingers on my skin, tracing feather-light around scrapes and dried blood.

"How did this happen?" she asks quietly.

"He shoved me against a wall while he was threatening me. About giving initiates drugs.”

"Oh." I look over my shoulder at her. Lips parted, she stares at me with an expression somewhere between disbelief and anger.  "I suppose I should be surprised that he would do that. But…" Her eyes snap up to mine, and she grins faintly. "But I'm not."

After a few seconds of awkward silence, she lets her hand drop, and I shift to sit with my back to (but not against, that would hurt too much) the wall. The cigarette I dropped, one line of white between the flame and the filter, still smolders. I put it out with my boot.

"What's in it for you?" she asks suddenly. "I mean, why are you doing this?" A wide, sweeping gestures encompasses us, the empty bottles on the floor and the entire hallway. "Just because you can? What am I to you?"

I stare as her arms fall limply back to her sides. Of all the directions this conversation could have gone, this is possibly the worst. How am I supposed to tell her that there is no reason for my behavior? That it could’ve been any other initiate who defied me and I would’ve been just as fascinated by them? But the last one isn’t true, I remind myself. That’s not why I want to be around her.

"If I knew, I would tell you. I mean it," I say as she opens her mouth to protest. "But I don't know. A big part of it is this"—and I hold up the satchel, which sags under the weight of the bottle in it— "and you."

"But those are the only parts. This, and me. And you." She's been grinning, amused by my clumsy attempts at an explanation, but it starts to slip. "What about me?"

I can't answer that. I would give away feelings I'm not even sure I have. "Do I have to have a reason?" I say instead. It feels like the wrong answer.

"I suppose not." She bites her lip; her eyes flick to me and quickly away again. "So you just have no reason?"

"No, I have reasons. Just not ones I'm telling you."

She grins again, the seriousness of the conversation temporarily forgotten. "What do you do when you're not here? Besides get attacked by guys with numbers for names, I mean." She pokes my side. It lands right on one of the bruises and it hurts, but I keep that to myself.

"Not much. The other leaders have meetings. I don't go to them. I don't belong there. I just…sit around. Smoke and drink all day, shoot up all night." I glance at her out of the corner of my eye. She appears to be thinking hard about something.

"You should go to one of the meetings," she says, surprising me.

"What? Why?"

"I don't know. Maybe they would take you more seriously. They leave you out. I see them all together, the other leaders, and you're never there. I think they would include you in more decisions if you showed up."

I stare at her in shock. She's trying to help me with my problems. She’s got her own to worry about, especially with Four on her back, but she’s thinking about me. I don't know what makes me do it…but I reach out and pull her against my chest, my lips in her hair.

"Thank you," I whisper. I don’t know what exactly I’m thanking her for—her company, her secrecy, her willingness to look past everything I am to see what I could be if I tried. Maybe all of those things.

I feel her smile, and some of the tension slips from her body. "No problem," she says. "So, can we shoot up now?"


	19. Adore

It's almost three in the morning when I unlock the door to Asher's room. I've had a key for as long as we've been Dauntless, so it feels like second nature to me. I hear her deep, even breathing and know she's asleep. In one dim blue light, I know how her room is laid out, can anticipate obstacles until I bump into the side of the mattress. Unlike me, she actually has a bed frame, though it’s not exactly in the best condition. I climb onto it, shake her gently until she blinks and a small noise escapes her mouth. Her breathing changes, so I know she's awake, but she remains completely still. However, I still feel movement…and since I'm frozen in shock, that leaves only one option:

There is someone else in the bed with her.

I scramble backwards until my feet hit the floor again and from there make my way to the chain to pull the lights. Bright blue illuminates the room. I have to blink nonstop for a minute before I can see clearly. Asher is sitting up, stretching away sleep, barely clothed in scraps of black. Devoid of eyeliner, she looks sixteen again, back when our only concern was how to sneak out and meet each other. Next to her, someone with tan skin and brown hair holds a hand in front of his eyes. Even without seeing his face, I recognize him instantly: David.

"What the hell?" My voice scratches in my throat, scrapes its way out. He stands up, squinting against the light. Like me, he is shirtless but otherwise clothed.

"I could ask you the same thing," he replies, arching an eyebrow. "Don't you have somewhere else to be?"

"Not that I know of." I pray he doesn't notice the new puncture mark on the inside of my arm, or the grime on my palms from pushing myself off the dusty ground. "But you're obviously busy, so I'll come back later.”

"Wait!" Asher pushes herself up to her feet. She's unsteady, sleep-drunk and not fully awake. She stumbles over and puts her hand on my shoulder, her full weight—not very much—on me. "David, go 'way," she slurs.

"No, I'll go," I say. "I know when I'm not wanted."

She glares at me with surprising ferocity for someone so small and innocent-looking. "You stay." She rounds on David, and the frown deepens. "You go."

His expression doesn't change, but I know he's mad at me. "Fine." He snatches his shirt off the floor and stalks out of the room. Asher lowers herself to the bed, grinning wryly.

"That's the problem with people you've known since birth," she observes, eyes going from the ceiling to me to her discarded clothes and back again. "They can read you like a book and play you like a…" She trails off, creases appearing in her forehead.

"Like a…" I prompt.

"Oh, I don't remember. Don't listen to me. I'm drunk. So how was your date?"

"Not a date," I mutter. "Fuck it, something's wrong with me, Ash, and I don't know what it is."

She sits up and stares at me curiously, running her fingers through her hair. I look down at my own hands. They are shaking and dirty, the nails painted chipped black as usual, but it feels out of place against my pale skin. "You're high," she says, grabbing one of my hands between hers. Her fingers trail up my arm and press carefully on the newly reopened injection site. "Recently high. You've been using a lot more than you usually do. When was the last time you shot up before this?"

"Dammit, I don't know. A couple days ago?"

"You're going to overdose if you keep this up. Lay off the liquid love, sweetheart. I know withdrawal isn't pretty, but it's better than death."

"Or so you think."

"Think? Remember, I'm highly intoxicated. How long since your last flashback?"

"I—" Normally, my answer wouldn't have been any longer than a week ago, but since Christina…I can't remember having one since the first time we shot up together. The realization that I'm thinking in terms of 'before Christina' and 'after Christina' is jarring and terrifying. It starts me shaking again, worse than before.

"Ric? Eric? Lay down, okay? Don't freak out. This is a good thing. You're finally living in the present, right? That's what you've wanted for years. You're leaving your past behind. Don't pass out, Eric, you'll get me in trouble. What would people say if they found an unconscious leader in my room?"

She hovers over me anxiously until my breathing regains a normal, steady rate and I can see straight. My hands still tremble as I push my hair back from my face, catching strands on piercings. They, too, feel like they don’t belong. "I can't lose her, Ash, I can't forget her."

"And you won't."

"But I am."

"Look," she sighs impatiently. "You're obviously delusional. Do you need, like, a smoke or something?"

"That sounds good." My whole body aches, and it hurts to move. I sit up slowly, wincing with every motion. Asher lights a cigarette, puts it in my hand and raises it to my lips. I settle into an inhale-exhale rhythm, watching the smoke curl towards the ceiling.

"You need to find yourself again." She sits across from me, knees pulled against her chest, in a position so similar to Christina's in the hallway that I find I have to look away.

"I wouldn’t know where to start."

"Don't worry." Her lips curl slowly into her trademark wicked grin, the one that used to herald overcomplicated plans to sneak out of the Erudite compound at night but is now mostly used to signify ‘getting wasted.’ "I know exactly where to go."


	20. Fight Club

I spend the next day holed up in Asher's room while she tends sloppily to the bruises and cuts on my back. By the next night I've been disinfected and wrapped tightly in sterile white bandages. The Instigate high hasn't quite worn off yet, which makes Asher's theory of eventual overdose that much more likely, though I don’t want to think about it. In addition to that, I'm loaded up on painkillers, so much that I can't feel a thing. It's all well and good, though, because I'll need them to make it through a night in the Lion's Den.

The Den is the lowest part of the compound. It has three roughly hewn stone walls and a fourth of iron bars. If you look out, you're only two feet above the chasm, and sometimes white water sprays up with such a force that everyone inside gets drenched. It's a hideout for those Dauntless who thrive on violence and adrenaline. A year ago, I was here almost every night, fighting for drugs to stock up on the off chance Isaac couldn’t deliver. Now I return seeking the person I used to be, and there's as good a chance as any that he's trapped within these walls.

Asher grips my hand loosely, swinging our arms back and forth as she strains to see above the crowd. She’s at least a foot shorter than me, even in heels. My height gives me an advantage. I have a perfect view of the fight. Two men with full sleeve tattoos and black hair are circling each other warily. Both are bloody and bruised, far more so than me. One launches at the other, and they become a tangle of limbs and angry shouting. I try to narrate for Asher as best as I can, but it's no use: the fight is over in seconds, when the shorter one gets pinned. Red, the announcer ( _we used to shoot up together, remember? Funny how things just slowly fade away_ ) raises the winner's right hand and presses something into his left. I can tell right away it's not Instigate, bur if I fight, and win…

"Alright," Red yells, "who's next?" The audience screams out a chorus of names, but ultimately a boy only a year or two older than me gets pushed into the ring. An easy target. I let go of Asher's hand and shove through the crowd. Shouting turns to awed and fearful whispers as I cross the unofficial boundary of the fighting space, marked off only by sloppily-applied tape on the floor. Red stares in shock for a second and then grins.

"Well, well. Look who decided to show up." He motions me forward and turns to the crowd. "For those of you who don't know, this is Eric—leader of the Dauntless!" The Den bursts into cheers. I wonder how much of them are forcing it and how many are hoping I’ll get beat up. Asher, who has worked her way to the front of the crowd in my wake, screams obscenities at the top of her lungs.

Red claps me on the back. Thanks to a combination of Instigate and painkillers, I don't feel a thing. "Good to have you back," he mutters as he steps out of the ring. "Alright, the rules are simple. You've got five minutes. First one to get pinned for five seconds loses. If your five minutes are up and there's no winner, we move on to the tiebreaker." The whole room shudders at once. No one wants to have to move on to the tiebreaker. "You ready?"

My opponent and I look at each other, and I nod.

"Alright…begin!"

He wastes no time. My opponent lunges towards me. I step aside at the last second, then turn around and sweep-kick his legs out from under him. He lands sprawled on the floor, but despite what must have been a painful blow, he's back on his feet quickly.

Everything fades out and I'm running on pure adrenaline as I dodge his attacks, sometimes throwing in a few of my own. I have to win, I have to. If I do, I prove to myself and everyone here that I'm still Dauntless, still their leader and intimidating as ever. Christina's comments about the other leaders failing to include me in their decisions ring in my ears, adding fuel to the fire of my hatred. I never really wanted to be a leader. The position was forced upon me, along with all the dangerous tasks that go with it. But now that I am one, the Dauntless leadership appears to have shrunk to four positions. I can't love without taint anymore, everyone I love dies or deserts me. I'm a pathetic good-for-nothing addict posing as a conspirator, a leader, a friend, a confidant, someone mysterious and dangerous. But I'm not any of that. I'm worthless.

I don't know what happens after that thought enters my mind. The next minute or two are a blur of blood and pained groans. I regain awareness to the deafening roar of the Den and Red holding my hand in the air. Asher leans against one of the stone walls, grinning wryly. I make my way to her, clutching my prize vial of lifeblood in my hand.

"How did I do?" I slip the vial into my pocket. Already I know exactly what I'm going to do with it.

"You went bugfuck on that guy." She pauses, and her face splits into a wide smile. "It was _awesome_."

I lean against the wall behind her and watch several more fights, listening to her commentary. My mind wanders off, and I find myself thinking of last night. Christina is dangerously close to understanding me, to cracking my code, and the idea is horrifying. I rarely bare my soul to anyone, and of the two people who do truly know me, one is dead and one is slipping through my fingertips.

"Hey." Asher pokes my side. The painkillers are starting to wear off, and for the first time I feel the full extent of my recent injuries. "See that girl?"

I follow her gaze to a tiny little thing with dyed-blue hair that looks away nervously when my eyes land on her.

"She's been staring at you ever since you showed up." She pushes me away gently. "Go get 'er."

I make my way through the crowd, Asher following me at a distance. The girl starts when I appear behind her. I am almost nervous, but then I remember: I am a Dauntless leader. I am the son of an Erudite leader. I was born from power, bred for it, whether I like it or not. And I get whatever I want.

"Did you enjoy the fight?" I pitch my voice low, and drape an arm around her. She looks up at me and smiles anxiously.

"It was great. You were great."

"Only great? Hmm. I was hoping for better." She blushes and ducks her head. I lean down to whisper in her ear. "Have you ever fucked a Dauntless leader?"

I can tell she wasn't expecting me to be this direct. "N—no."

Pause, during which I resolve to the course of action I've already set myself on. "Do you want to?"

"Ah, hell," Asher whispers behind me, just loudly enough for me to hear it. "Not again. He's back, ladies and gentlemen. Mothers, better lock your doors and hide your daughters. Eric's back."


	21. Crash

_The dream starts the same. I’m wearing test-subject white in an isolation tank, this time with an IV feeding Instigate in my arm. It runs through my veins in place of blood, makes my heart beat out a painfully irregular rhythm. My mother is absent, though: Christian stands next to me, hair and clothes dripping wet. In her hand she clutches a broken section of railing from the chasm. Her hand is bloody where it closes around the jagged metal. Tears, somehow discernible from the water, stream down her face, and she repeats “Why did you forget? Why didn’t you come back for me?” until I’m going to die..._

The lights flick on and I snap awake, breathing heavy, my heart pounding in my chest. The girl I was with last night ( _what was her name? Dammit, Eric, I don’t know, one of those common Dauntless names, and stop fucking talking to yourself_ ) seems to have left, but Asher perches on the dresser across the room, fingering the chain that controls the lights and twirling the spare key I gave her in her other hand.

“Oh, good, you’re awake,” she says, standing up. She looks far more alert than I do, though no doubt she was up to the same things last night after we parted ways. “Your little sex toy left about an hour ago. Boy, was she mad to find me sitting here. I’m surprised it didn’t wake you up. You okay? You don’t look so good.”

“I’m fine,” I say, but when I sit up the room starts to spin around me. I barely make it to the bathroom before the contents of my stomach make a sudden reappearance, followed by a round of dry heaving that’s almost worse. Asher follows and dutifully holds my hair back, and for a moment I feel like my old self again, my initiate self, in the worst way possible.

“She had something on her,” Asher explains. “I don’t know what it was, but you shot it up with no hesitation because you’re a fucking idiot. You drank, too, and took a lot of pills. Whatever it was, it didn’t mix well with Instigate. You’ve been tossing and turning all night.”

“Great.” I replace my sixth and final lip ring, having taken care to clean each of them. “Wait, were you there the whole time?”

“Yeah. Sort of. I was going to go back to my room, but David was waiting to ambush me.” She returns to her perch on the dresser, exhaling in a sigh. “He wants us all to exclude you. Thinks that maybe if you’re alone you’ll start to rethink your life. I think it’s bullshit. If we just leave you alone with no support you’ll only get worse. Why on earth did we have to be friends with someone who has _morals_?”

“Did he really say that?”

“Not in those words, but the sentiment was there.”

“So you stayed here all night?”

“There wasn’t much of a choice.”

“You could’ve gone to Ivoree’s.”

“But she’d take his side. You’ve seen the way she looks at him. Trust me, I did not want to be here. I saw things last night that I’ll never be able to unsee.”

“You never had any problem seeing them before.

“That’s a completely different situation. It doesn’t count.

There’s something off about her, but I’m so hungover and exhausted I can’t figure out what it is. She looks normal—bleached blond hair parted semi-neatly down the center, eyes rimmed in dark kohl, dressed in one of her skimpy black outfits. She’s being a sarcastic bitch as usual. But I know her too well to buy that nothing’s wrong.

“What’s up?” I stumble over to the dresser—no small feat for someone on the beginnings of an Instigate headache—and loop my arms around her.

“Nothing’s up.” She tries to squirm away, but I am insistent.

“Don’t lie to me, Ash. I don’t like it when you lie.”

She bites her lip nervously. “You’ll get mad at me if I tell you.”

“No, I won’t. Promise.”

I can tell she doesn’t believe me, and she’s right not to. I may never truly get mad at her, but the wrong words now, when my physical state is so fragile, could easily set me off. “Fine. You keep saying all this shit about how you need to find yourself again.”

“Yeah...”

“Well, I think you already did. You just refuse to admit it.”

I’m stunned. I can’t even pretend to not know what she’s talking about, though I’ll sure as hell try. The addiction-fueled part of my brain whispers that maybe she’s just trying to piss me off. She’s done it before. The semi-rational part, however, knows she’s serious.

“What do you mean?” I ask, trying to control my voice.

“You’re mad.”

“I won’t be if you explain yourself.”

“Well, think about it. I haven't seen you this close to happy in years, especially after what happened during initiation—”

“Wow. Thanks for reminding me.”

“Dammit, Eric, would you let me finish? Okay. So you’re sort of happy now. I’m not sure how much of that has to do with drugs and how much has to do with you-know-who. But you shouldn’t be trying to change it.”

“Okay. Now I’m mad.”

“I knew it!”

“But I understand what you’re saying.”

She freezes. I know she didn’t expect that. But my bellicose nature is slowly slipping away, replaced with true exhaustion. I know how pointless it is to fight with her. My energy could be better used for other things.

“Well. Thank you for listening.”

“No problem.”

We’ve run out of words, so for the next hour or so we just stay there in total silence, arms around each other, and think of how things used to be.


End file.
